


Layers

by Becca_Marie



Series: Layers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mild Innuendo, No S3 Spoilers, Post-Reichenbach, Trigger Warnings: mentions of past abuse/violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 57,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becca_Marie/pseuds/Becca_Marie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I nodded confirmation and lifted the phone to my ear.  “Hello?”<br/>“Is this Caro-”<br/>“Jeez, Myc,” I interrupted, careful not to switch out of my fake American accent.  “Violet.  Please.  Are you on a secure line?”<br/>I could almost hear the frown in his voice.  “I always am.  Aren’t you?”<br/>“Yes.  Doesn’t matter.  I’m still Violet until I finish this up and get back there.  What do you want?”<br/>The other end was uncharacteristically silent for a moment, which made me nervous.  “Mycroft?”<br/>“It’s Sherlock,” he finally said.  His voice, though controlled and stoic as ever, seemed off somehow.<br/>I chewed my lip, not sure what to think.  “What do you mean?  What about Sherlock?”<br/>More silence.  This whole conversation was odd.<br/>Then: “He’s dead.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Just figured I'd give a heads-up: this story is primarily from the point of view of an original character. I've tried to keep everyone else in character as much as possible, but I love feedback so if something seems off please let me know! Comments and concrit are more than welcome :) 
> 
> I don't own anything except for the plot and two of the characters. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Prologue

“Vi?  It’s for you.”

I glanced from a stack of paperwork to see my roommate standing in the door of my bedroom holding our landline.  “Who is it?”

She shrugged.  “Dunno.  Some guy with a fancy British accent.”

I frowned.  I wasn’t supposed to have any contact from London until next week, and they always communicated to me personally – and anyway, Rose would know if it was the London office.  “Alright, thanks.”

She placed the phone in my outstretched hand.  “Holler if you need me.”

I nodded confirmation as she walked back to the apartment’s living room and lifted the phone to my ear.  “Hello?”

“Is this Caro-”

“Jeez, Myc,” I interrupted, careful not to switch out of my fake American accent.  “Violet.  Please.  Are you on a secure line?”

I could almost hear the frown in his voice.  “I always am.  Aren’t you?”

“Yes.  Doesn’t matter.  I’m still Violet until I finish this up and get back there.  What do you want?”

The other end was uncharacteristically silent for a moment, which made me nervous.  “Mycroft?”

“It’s Sherlock,” he finally said.  His voice, though controlled and stoic as ever, seemed off somehow. 

I chewed my lip, not sure what to think.  “What do you mean?  What about Sherlock?”

More silence.  This whole conversation was odd. 

Then: “He’s dead.”

“He’s what?” 

“I need to return to work.  I thought the news would be better delivered from me.”  The line disconnected.

“Wait, Mycroft…” I said, knowing he’d already hung up but not able to stop myself from trying to get answers.  When all I heard was a dial tone, I let the phone fall to my bed.

I sat numbly for a moment, trying to process what I’d just learned.  Though not unlikely, given his lifestyle, it still was difficult for me to accept the man I’d idolised since childhood was gone. 

Rose reappeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame.  “You alright?  Seems too quiet in here.”

I looked at her, my brain still two steps behind everything else.  “Um.  I’m not sure.”

Her forehead creased in concern.  “That’s a no, then.  Who was that?  Work?”

“No.”  I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.  “No, it was personal.” 

She came in and perched across from me on the bed.  “You want to talk about it?”

I laughed bitterly.  “Me?  Talk about emotions?  You know me better than that.”  I exhaled slowly.  “No, I’ll be fine.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.  Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s nothing, really.  Just – someone died.  But we haven’t spoken in years… it’s honestly not a big deal.  Promise.”

 Her eyes narrowed, disbelieving.  “Someone died and it’s not a big deal?  Hon, you’ve been in this business for too long.”  Long pianists’ fingers deftly pulled a mobile from the pocket of her pyjama bottoms.  “I’ll get in touch with the London office, have arrangements made for you to get back.  Do you know when the funeral is?”

“No.”

She was already tapping at the screen, long blonde hair obscuring her face from my view as she bent over the phone.  “That’s fine, I’m sure they’ll be willing to give you time – “

“No, I mean I’m not going back to London.  I told you, we haven’t spoken in years.  He wouldn’t want me there.”

“Vi, it’s fine.  I can handle a couple weeks without you.”

“This assignment is serious, I can’t take that much time.  I can’t take any time.”

“You are not missing a funeral for work.”

“I can’t,” I murmured.  “I can’t go.  Nobody will want me there, he wouldn’t want me there, I hardly know anybody who has been in his life since I left…really, Rose.  I just need to work.”

Understanding finally dawned on her face.  “Oh, Vi…”  She tried to lean in for a hug, but I waved her off.  If I let her hug me the lump in my throat would burst and I’d break the emotional mask that had been in place since my ninth birthday. 

I smiled at her apologetically and handed her the landline.  “Would you mind putting this back on the stand?”

She stood and walked out, squeezing my shoulder sympathetically as she passed.  “Let me know what you need.”

I nodded and turned back to my files.  “Work.  Lots and lots of work.”


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six Months Later

**How are you doing? –MH**

The text lit up my dark bedroom, yanking me from an uneasy sleep.  I glanced at the clock on my phone, squinting: 12:09 am.  Let Mycroft choose the middle of the night to decide small talk was no longer beneath him.  Of course, it was 8 am his time.  I groaned and opened my messages.

_You realise it’s midnight here?-C_

**Of course.  I assumed you were working. –MH**

_No.  Sleeping for once.  What do you want?-C_

The screen lit up with an incoming call.  I scowled and answered.  “What is it, Mycroft?”

“I require your services.”

“Really.”

“Yes.  Here.”

“I’m not one of your minions, available on command.  I have responsibilities here. I can’t just leave.”

“Actually, you can.  I’m reassigning you, effective immediately.  A domestic safety problem.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I already did.”

I huffed.  “And you needed to tell me this at 12 am?”

“My flight arrives at Los Angeles International at 6 am.  I thought you would appreciate the warning.”

“Great, thanks,” I snarled sarcastically.

“A joy as ever, _Violet_ ,” he replied, his subtle sarcasm much more effective than my bad-tempered growling.  “I have taken the liberty of alerting the Los Angeles office.  They’re not expecting you.”

“Wonderful.”

“I shall see you within the day.”  He hung up.

I glared at my phone, tempted to throw it at a wall; instead I opted to set it safely back on the nightstand and rolled out of bed with a moan. 

 

 

True to his word, he was disembarking when I arrived at LAX.  He granted me a rare (though awkward) one-armed hug when I approached him. 

“Are you actually indulging in sentiment, Mycroft?” I teased.

He frowned at me, the familiar creases between his eyes more like home than any building could be.  “I haven’t seen you in some time.  Some display of affection was in order.  This is hardly the time for teasing.”

“Someone has to keep the mood light.  You’re certainly not going to do it.”

He held me at arm’s length.  “You look good, Liv.”

I sobered.  “You never call me Liv,” I said softly.

He didn’t reply to the comment; only one person used to call me Liv.  Mycroft’s too used to skirting emotion to acknowledge that directly, so he changed the subject.  “How is your knee recovering?”

“Fine.”  I looked him over.  “You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

“Some.  Are you sleeping?  You look exhausted.”

I shrugged.  “I haven’t slept since you called.” 

“That is not what I meant.  You’re still having your nightmares.” 

“What did you expect?  They don’t just go away.”

He rolled his eyes elegantly.  “You two will make quite the pair.  Come on, let’s get my luggage.”

“Us two?”

He started moving away.  “I will explain everything in the car.”

“Mycroft –”

“Patience.”


	3. Chapter Two

Once Mycroft retrieved his bag, we headed back to my car.  He wrinkled his nose slightly as we approached the Cavalier I shared with Rose. 

“This is what you drive?  Is it safe?”

I rolled my eyes.  “Yes it’s safe.  Just because it didn’t cost an arm and a leg doesn’t compromise its safety.”

He sniffed.  “I pay for quality.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m a college student here.  I can’t afford one of your fancy government vehicles.”  I hefted his suitcase into the boot of the car.  “You sitting in the front with me, or am I playing chauffeur?”

He didn’t respond, just circled to the passenger side door.  “Where do they have you enrolled?”

I slid into the driver’s seat.  “UCLA.  I’m majoring in cognitive science.”

“Psychology should not be classified as a science.”

“Oi, don’t knock it.  I’m actually enjoying myself.  It’s easy, anyway.  Gives me time to focus on my actual work.” 

Now that the doors were shut, he turned to serious conversation.  “How secure is this vehicle?”

“We should wait until we get home to say anything classified.  I can guarantee it’s not bugged, but tinted windows on a Cavalier would be a bit suspicious.  Anyone can see in.”

He nodded.  “How long is the drive?”

I pulled my dark curls into a ponytail to keep them out of my face while I drove, then started the car.  “Depends on traffic.  It only took me fifteen minutes to get here, but we’ll be battling the beginnings of rush hour.”

“Mm.”  He settled back into his seat and let his eyes drift closed.

“Long flight?” 

“Yes.”

I left it at that.  We couldn’t discuss anything important until we returned to the secured apartment Rose and I live in, and neither I nor Mycroft are much for small talk.  We were quiet for the rest of the drive. 

As I pulled into the car park underneath the complex, Myc stirred from the doze he’d slipped into.  Our silence continued as we retrieved his luggage from the car boot and headed for the lifts.  I scanned my security card and punched the button for the third floor. 

“No questions?” he asked as he followed me in.

I shook my head and indicated a camera in the corner of the lift.  “Elevators have surveillance to make sure nobody gets in who isn’t supposed to.  There isn’t anything inside the building, since any cameras, even ours, have the possibility of being hacked, but they want to make sure all entrances are secured.” 

“Ah.”

“I thought you’d know that.”

“My position within your organisation is merely that of liaison.  I am not privy to security information.”

I raised an eyebrow.  “Like that ever stops you.”

“Even I have my limits.  In this case, the security is designed to keep people like me from attaining information.  I know you have experience on the desk side of things, you should know this already.”

“Yes.  I also know you are incredibly tenacious when it comes to getting information about the safety of those you pretend not to care about.”  The doors slid open with a soft ding and I led the way out of the lift.  “Room 320.  About halfway down the hall.”

The apartment complex was an old hotel that the agency bought several years ago and converted into a secure living space for agents in the field.  All units came with landlines and Wi-Fi connections that were virtually untraceable, and no surveillance equipment was allowed inside.  As far as technology was concerned, the building was pretty impenetrable. 

I watched Mycroft scan the hallway, taking in the worn red carpet and coordinating doors with their gold numbers. 

“It doesn’t look like much, I know, but it’s actually a nice place to live.”

“Even after growing up in a manor?”

“Especially after growing up in a manor.”

“You did always resemble Sherlock like that.”

“Can we not?”

He looked at me sideways.  “Of course.  I thought you would want to discuss –”

“No.”  I reached for my keys and security card as we approached 320.  “Here we are.” 

Rose was standing in the little kitchen brewing coffee as we walked in.  She spun around when she heard the door open, instinctively centring her weight.

“Relax, Rose.  It’s just me.”

The tension left her shoulders, but she didn’t turn back to the coffee.  “Who’s this?”

“Government liaison.  Needs to discuss an assignment with me.”

She frowned.  “Are they pulling you off this one?  Because that fiasco last week was not your fault and they can’t blame you for it.”

I shrugged, ready to respond, but Myc cut in before I could say anything.  “I am in need of your partner’s talents and knowledge for a personal assignment.  It is not through the agency.”

“She’s not just some bodyguard to be rented out.  Besides, she’s been reassigned to the intelligence side of things.  Violet isn’t allowed to do active field work beyond simple surveillance anymore.”

I scowled at her.  “Thanks for bringing that up, Rose.”

“I am aware of the physical restrictions of Violet’s injuries, but I appreciate your concern for her.”

I elbowed his side.  “Myc, please.  Don’t do the protective thing here.”

He raised an elegant eyebrow at me.  “I am sure I don’t know –“

“Yeah, you do.”  I grabbed the handle of his suitcase and directed my next comment at Rose.  “We’ll be in my room if you need anything.” 


	4. Chapter Three

Mycroft followed me quietly into my bedroom.  “I like her.  She’s good for you,” he said once the door closed behind him.

“Rose and I make a fantastic team.  She’s not just a partner.  And we’ve been working together for so long we rarely have to speak anymore when we’re on a job.  She was great about helping me get through physical therapy on my knee.  Wouldn’t accept any jobs until she knew for sure I was going to be the one working with her.”

“Most people would advise against developing any sort of friendship with a partner in this business.”

I shook my head.  “Not her.  Seriously Myc, it’s only made us stronger as a team.”  I plunked the suitcase on my bed, noting its weight for the first time.  “How long are you planning to stay?”

“That’s not for here.  I’m making a detour into Canada on my way home.” 

“I assume I’m not going with you.”

“No.  I need you to go straight to London.” 

I settled against my pillow.  “Okay, explain.  What’s up?”

“I need you to keep an eye on someone for me.”

I narrowed my eyes.  “Don’t you have people for that sort of thing?”

“This isn’t surveillance, nor is it for work.  I was serious when I said it was personal; I am bringing you in because I trust you.”

“As much as you ever trust anyone.”  I sighed.  “Who?”

He opened the suitcase and extracted a photo from the top.  “This man.”

I took the photograph.  It showed a solidly built man in his early forties, cropped blonde hair framing a round, weathered face.  My eyes widened in surprise.  “Captain Watson?”

“He’s – yes.  You know him?”

I glanced at him, noting the mild surprise in his tone.  “Where have you been?  There was a time you knew my every move, everyone I interacted with.” I nodded to the picture.  “John and I served together.”

“I managed to lose track of you for several months.  You spent time in the service?”

“Almost two years ago.  That’s probably when you lost track of me; they set up a completely new identity because I needed to disappear for a while.  I served for eight months, from May to December, switched units after John was shot in September.  It was a cover, of course – I needed to gather information on a colonel who had been involved with the unit before being dishonourably discharged.  I worked as a nurse.”

“Do you know what he’s been doing since he returned to London?”

I shook my head.  “We exchanged a couple emails right after he was discharged, but then I was sent back here.  I was caught up in work for a while, and then in April I was hurt.  I’ve been working so hard on regaining use of my knee that I haven’t focused on anything else.  Honestly, I have no idea what’s been going on outside my little box since I returned to the U.S.”

“Did you have any communication with Sherlock in that time?”

I crossed my arms, irritated by the sudden subject change.  “No.  Not since I left for America the first time.  I thought we weren’t going to talk about him.” 

“If it’s relevant…”

“I don’t see how it would be.  And in any case, I don’t care how it’s relevant, I refuse to discuss him.  We argued, he made it clear he didn’t want to speak to me or see me again.  I left; you sent him to rehab.  All contact ceased.  End of story.  Now, please explain to me what’s going on with John or leave.” 

I could see his eyes take on that mildly calculating look he has when he’s planning something, but I was never able to read him the way he could me.  I narrowed my eyes at him.  “Whatever you’re scheming, no.”

“I’m not scheming anything.  Excuse me.”  He reached for his work mobile and glanced at the screen.  I rolled my eyes; work still followed him everywhere.  “Nothing pressing,” he said, replacing it, then smoothly continued his explanation.  “Dr Watson recently lost a close friend to suicide.”

“Oh, God.  That’s terrible.”

He nodded.  “Yes.  I’m becoming concerned about his welfare.  I was hoping you would be willing to move in with him and make sure he takes care of himself.  You knowing him previously is quite helpful, actually.  I was simply reconstructing my plans to accommodate this new information.”

“What do these plans include?”

“Would you be willing to re-acquire the identity you used while in the army?”

“I’d have to, wouldn’t I?  But yes, that’s fine.  I was starting to miss her, anyway.  Feels like I’ve been Violet for far too long.” 

“You could always become yourself again.”

“Not until the ST Project is wrapped up, which could take another several years.  Even we don’t know exactly how far the web reaches.”  I gestured at him to continue.

“Of course.  You remember Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Did he finally make DI?  Good for him.”

“Shortly after you left England.  Coincidentally, he and John became close acquaintances through the friend who died.  Given that they are still in touch, he has agreed to help facilitate your introduction – or in this case, reunion.  John holds me responsible for the friend’s death, so he would never accept help from me.  However, he is perfectly willing to assist Gregory by picking up a family friend from Heathrow tomorrow morning.” 

Rose knocked quietly on my door.  “Vi, it’s 7:30.  I’m heading to class.”

“Alright.  I may not be here when you get back tonight, but I’ll be sure to email you.”    

She nodded.  “Please do.  How long will you be gone?”

I looked at Mycroft.  “Well?”

“As long as it takes.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“You’re right, it’s not.”

I stared at him; that was the closest I’d ever come to hearing him admit to not knowing something.  Mycroft’s sure about everything, he always has been.

Eventually I turned back to her.  “I’ll let you know what the situation is once I get there.  A few months at least.  Possibly longer.”

“What’s the assignment?”

“Babysitting.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Mycroft argued mildly. 

“Essentially it is.  Making sure he eats, sleeps, doesn’t do anything stupid.  It sounds like babysitting to me.” 

She nodded.  “As long as you don’t do anything stupid yourself.  And don’t change phones.  I’ll keep you updated on what’s going on here.”

“You should apply for a new partner.”

“I’ll be fine.  It’s not like much will change, anyway, since you can continue to provide intelligence from wherever you are.  You’ll still be the expert on T.”

“You should go, you’ll be late for class if you get caught in traffic.”  I turned back to Mycroft.  “That reminds me, you need to pull me out of UCLA.”

“Do you need a ride anywhere?  We’ve only got the one car.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mycroft responded.  “I have a contact at the British Consulate; I’ll have him send one.”

“Yes, that’s subtle.”  I rolled my eyes.  “Just go, we’ll figure it out.  Have a good day.”

“Stay safe.”  She threaded her arm through the second strap of her backpack and left. 

“So.  When does my flight leave?”

He checked his watch.  “Three hours.  You should start packing.” 


	5. Chapter Four

In the end, I agreed to let Mycroft get in touch with his contact.  Considering the Consulate-General building was less than five miles from the apartment it wasn’t too big of an inconvenience for them, and it had been a while since I’d let Myc pull strings for me. 

Our flights left within half an hour of each other – I was surprised to learn Myc did still condescend to fly public airlines, albeit top-notch ones and always in first-class seats – so he sat with me at my terminal while we waited to start boarding.  We didn’t say much, but it was nice to spend time with him again.  The solidity and security of his presence was something I’d missed during my first few years in the field. 

When the boarding call came for my flight, he gave me another quick one-armed squeeze before leaving to find his terminal.  I collected my luggage and boarded, thankful he’d bought my seat instead of the agency.  Part of being undercover for them is complete immersion – college students from LA rarely get to fly first class. 

As soon as I was settled in my seat, I stuck earphones into my ears, pulled out a book, and proceeded to isolate myself for the next five hours until we touched down at JFK International.  After establishing myself and my laptop in a café at JFK I glanced at the itinerary Mycroft had given me: one and a half hour layover in New York before I boarded the plane to London. 

**Did you make it to JFK safely? – MH**

_Yes.  Here for another hour or so.-C_

**Good.  Let me know when you reach London. –MH**

_How’s Canada?-C_

**It’s December.  You tell me. –MH**

I snorted and set the phone back on the table.  My emails weren’t anything interesting, though I made sure to send Rose one letting her know I’d made it safely to New York.  I skimmed back through the ancient mail in my inbox, but I hadn’t saved any of the brief correspondence I’d had with John after he was sent home.  We’d become somewhat close in Afghanistan.  Considering it was a smallish unit and I was often assigned as his nurse in the operating room, we got to know each other well; or at least, I got to know him well.  He merely became well-acquainted with the identity I was using at the time.  Though similar to me in temperament (unlike Violet, who was much more soft spoken in public), she had a wildly different backstory.  Hopefully he wouldn’t remember too much of that, or I was in trouble.  Maintaining a different history was alright when working together for a few months, but trying to live with him for an indefinite amount of time could strain even what I was capable of. 

Fifteen minutes later my mobile buzzed again, this time with an incoming call.  Assuming it was Mycroft, I answered without checking the number.  “I know you prefer to call, but honestly I was enjoying the texting.”

“I’m sorry?”

It wasn’t Mycroft. 

“Ah—yeah, sorry, not who I thought.  Who is this?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.  This isn’t Livvie?”

I grinned at the pet name, one he’d given me himself when Sherlock made it clear ‘Liv’ was for his use only.  “Yeah, though I’m going by something else these days.  It’s great to hear from you, Greg.  How’s life?”

“You’re sounding older.  Feels like you were just a kid last time I saw you.  Things are fine, I s’pose.  Could be better, but could always be worse.”

His comfortable London lilt eased me back into my natural accent, one I was grateful to be able to use again.  “I was seventeen when we met, and what, twenty-one last time we worked together?  Hardly a kid.” 

He laughed.  “You’re right there.  Guess it’s just ‘cause you were always in Sherlock’s shadow.  Made you seem younger than you were.”

And there was the magic name.  Even in death he haunted me.  I frowned slightly and changed the subject.  “Mycroft said you’re helping us out with the John situation?”

“I’d not call it a situation, but yeah.  I’m worried about him.  We all are.  He seems fine, just not himself, y’know?  Too stoic.”

“Like a soldier, yeah?  None of that bedside manner?”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, he does that.  It’s how he copes with stuff.”

“You know him?” 

I nodded, then realised he couldn’t see through the phone.  “Met in Afghanistan, of all places.  Small world.” 

We chatted briefly; mostly Greg wanted to know what I’d been up to since I left London.  I summarised what I could, edited the rest, and steered the conversation carefully away from Sherlock whenever necessary. 

“Well, I just wanted to touch base before you get here.  John should be there to pick you up tomorrow morning, he agreed to it at drinks tonight.  I told him you were a family friend coming to train at Bart’s.”  That would be Mycroft’s idea.  He’d think the medical student would appeal to the doctor in John. 

“Right, thanks.”  I glanced at the clock on my computer, finally realising what time it was there.  “You should get some sleep, Greg.  It’s gotta be, what?  Half midnight there?”

Static blew through the speakers as he sighed heavily.  “Yeah, working a case.  This one’s tough – woulda been right up Sherlock’s street.  Actually… you wouldn’t want to take a look once you got here?”

I huffed a harsh laugh.  “Greg, I haven’t done that stuff since I left.  I’m pretty rusty.”

He laughed softly back at me.  “Ah, it was worth a try.  I suppose it’s for the best, I probably shouldn’t push my luck right now.  Feel free to drop by, anyway.”

“Thanks.  Get some sleep.”

“Right.  Fly safely.  I’ll see you tomorrow, since John’s supposed to bring you by New Scotland Yard on my lunch break.”

“Sounds good.  Night, Greg.” 

 

I messed around on my computer for a little while longer, checking a fake Facebook account and listening to music on YouTube to pass the time like a normal university student would.  Eventually it was time to head to my terminal, so I packed everything up, sent off quick texts to Mycroft, Greg, and Rose letting them know I was turning off my phone, and powered it down. 

The flight to London was longer than the one to New York and it was dark outside, so I relaxed into the reclining seat and dozed fitfully.  I didn’t sleep deeply enough for dreams, continuously pulling myself awake just enough that I wouldn’t disturb anyone with nightmares. 

By the time the city came into sight, I was stiff despite the (relatively) comfortable chairs and cranky from lack of true sleep.  I tried to stretch out some of the kinks as we taxied down the runway; my left knee complained with several loud pops as I extended my legs. 

It was a full flight and I really didn’t feel like struggling with the other passengers as they pushed their way off, so I hung back and trailed behind the main group getting off the aeroplane and through security and customs.  This also let me scan the crowd of people waiting past security before any of them could see me.

John was waiting patiently on the outskirts of the crowd, eyes carefully skimming the group of passengers for someone who could be a medical student.  He looked a bit older, a bit more worn than I remembered, but better than the last time I saw him; though considering he was still recovering from a gunshot wound and nasty infection at the time, that wasn’t much of a surprise.  His posture was definitely military, contradicting the jeans and soft jumper he wore.  There was more grey in his hair and more lines around his eyes, but for the most part he was still the Captain Watson I respected.

At last the crowd disbursed enough that I could start to make my way over to him.  I saw the moment he recognised me; his eyes widened comically, and a small grin worked over his face.  I smiled back.

“Hey, Doc.  I couldn’t believe it when Greg told me who was picking me up today.”

He shook his head.  “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.”

I laughed.  “Honestly, I don’t think he knew.  We were talking during my layover in New York and he had no idea.”

John slung a friendly arm around my shoulders, falling easily back into the friendship we developed overseas.  “C’mon, let’s get your luggage.  You up for breakfast or d’you just want tea?”

“Mmm, food would be fantastic.”  I grinned. 

He stopped for a minute and stared, eyes scrutinising.  “You look great, lieutenant.” 

“You certainly look better than when I last saw you, Captain,” I teased.

“Not many people would agree with that these days.”  He hefted my carry-on onto his right shoulder.  “Luggage.  Food.  Sleep.  In that order.” 

“Yessir.” 

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.  “Seriously, though.  It’s good to see you, Mary.”


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo....I haven't forgotten this story, I promise. It's actually over halfway written now, which is exciting! Hopefully updates will be a little more consistent, since I've gotten much further ahead. There's still some plot building to do before the story picks up, but it will get there :)  
> Also, I do want to address the fact that this is not going to follow series three at all so there will be no spoilers to worry about.

By the time we finished eating, I could understand what Greg meant about John being stoic.  Even though we’d met in the Army, we would spend time together off-duty when we could be ourselves.  He had a fantastic sense of humour and was always ready with a funny story or compassionate ear. 

Throughout breakfast he was engaged in the conversation, but there were little tells in his speech and posture that were all captain.  His laughter, on its rare appearances, was clipped.  Stories didn’t flow as easily, and it seemed like he was editing; often there would be a vague descriptor, a mysterious pronoun, something that was set up as important but then glossed over at the last minute. 

Suddenly he stopped mid-sentence and stared at me.  “Stop it.”

“What?  Stop what?”

“Analysing.  You’ve got that look, like you’re picking me apart.”

I blinked.  “No I’m not.  I’m listening.”

“Mary.”

I sighed.  “You’re all closed off, like… remember how you were after you lost that Private – Michaels?  I thought maybe it was because we hadn’t seen each other in a while, but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable.  You just aren’t engaging like you used to.”

“I’ve changed.”

“I can see that.”

“Then what are you asking?”

I shrugged.  “I’m not asking anything.  I was just noticing.  You’re the one who commented.”  He’d tell me about his friend when he was ready.  I certainly wasn’t going to spring my recent loss on him.  It was too soon into the reunion for serious discussions.

Some of the tension eased from his shoulders.  “You’re right, I am.  Sorry, I’ve been a little tense lately.  I keep expecting everyone to be checking on me.”

“Is there a reason for that?”

His head tilted, curious.  “You’ve been out of the country for a while.”

I nodded, confused by his non-answer but more interested in maintaining the conversation than prying into his head.  “I really never came back after Afghanistan.  I had a job in the States, and no family here I wanted to visit, so there wasn’t much reason for me to be here.”  I took a sip of my tea.  “I’m not sure how that relates, though.”

He took a sip of tea himself and leaned back in his chair.  He crossed his arms, clearly uncomfortable.  “Never mind.  Forget I said anything.” 

“Right.  Well.  We still have a few hours before we’re supposed to meet Greg; want to show me around?  Feels like it’s been forever since I was last here.”

“Sure.  We should stop by your place first to drop off your bags though.”  He frowned.  “Where _are_ you staying?”

Here was the tricky part – getting him to take me to his flat without actually asking.  I lifted a shoulder sheepishly.  “Honestly, I don’t know.  I had a flatmate lined up, but she emailed me a couple days ago that her boyfriend was moving in with her instead.”  That was plausible, right?  “I thought maybe I could rent Greg’s spare room until I could find somewhere else.”

His brow furrowed in concern, which was promising.  “You may not want to.  He’s in the middle of a pretty ugly divorce from the sound of it.”  He thought for a minute.  “Tell you what – we’ll leave your bags at my place for now, then talk it over with him at lunch.”

“I really don’t want to impose…”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Thank you.”  Success. 

 

 

  John’s flat was nice, if a bit small for two people.  There wasn’t a guest room, which meant that any offer from him to stay there – which is what I was going for, eventually – would be to sleep on the sofa for a couple weeks until I could find somewhere within my price range.  He explained on the cab ride there that it was ideal, since it was close to the clinic where he’d recently been hired.  The “and far from my old flat” was implied in his tone but not explicitly stated.  The dead friend was most likely his flatmate then, if the flat held too many memories for him to continue living there. 

He went to stow my suitcase and carry-on in his bedroom, leaving me in the sitting room to look around.  I didn’t pry, but I did give the space a cursory once-over.  I could tell it wasn’t much lived in, regardless of the fact he’d been there for several months.  Most of his time was spent in the kitchen or bedroom; the sofa in the sitting room was provided by the landlord _(cheap and old, coordinated with the drab colour scheme of the walls and rug)_ but didn’t have the tell-tale indents of recent frequent usage.  The kitchen on the other hand, connected to the sitting room and therefore visible from where I stood, showed small signs of life in the regularly-used kettle _(old-fashioned stovetop kettle meant family heirloom, wearing around the handle and spout indicated frequent usage)_ and humming refrigerator.  His laptop was plugged in on the kitchen worktop, which was spotless. 

I heard a sharp intake of breath from my right, where a short hallway led to the bedroom.  I glanced over sharply.  John was standing at the edge of the sitting room, face white as a sheet, hand bracing himself against the wall.  I quickly made my way over to him, concerned.  He looked like he was in pain.  Was his shoulder still causing problems?  “You alright?”

He shook his head like he was trying to clear it, then nodded.  “Fine, yeah.  Fine.  You just reminded me of someone there for a minute.  The way you were looking around, it was - ”  He laughed quickly, insincerely, a half-hearted attempt to lighten the mood.  “Listen to me, I sound ridiculous.  You ready to go?”

“Absolutely.”  I grinned, but it was about as genuine as his laughter.  “Where to?”


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I'm going to try and do Friday updates as much as possible, but don't hold me to that because this semester could get very crazy very quickly. Speaking of which... My beta has this pesky little thing called a Masters thesis to work on, so she's no longer able to help with this. I'm doing my best to go over each chapter before I post, but if anything jumps out at you please let me know!

Neither of us had anywhere specific we wanted to go, so we had a cab drop us near New Scotland Yard and wandered among the various shops in the area.  We had barely started walking when John nodded to my knee and asked “What happened?”

“Comminuted fracture of the patella.”

He winced in sympathy, but I could see professional interest light up his eyes.  “How much did they have to remove?”

“I never asked.  At least two thirds of it is still there, but the bottom shattered pretty badly.  I’m not sure how much of that they were able to save.”  I looked over at him.  “I’ve been in physical therapy for months now, the limp should be gone.  How did you know?”

“You’re asking an army doctor.”  He indicated the scarring visible beneath the hem of my loose skirt.  “I know what surgical scars look like.”

Scarring patterns.  Of course.

We strolled for a while, more focused on chatting than the storefronts, but after an hour or so I started to shiver.  As soon as John noticed he ushered me into the nearest building, which happened to be a coffee shop.  Once he’d ordered me a drink (and refused my offers to pay), he frowned at me a little while we waited for it to be prepared.  “How long, exactly, have you been out of London?  You should know better than to walk around without a heavier jacket in December.  Particularly with your legs exposed like that.”

I smirked at him.  “Yes, da.”

He chuckled ruefully.  “Yeah, alright.  Guess I deserved that.”

I smiled and went to retrieve my drink.  “I was in Los Angeles.  And I was mostly inside.  I didn’t venture out much after my surgery, besides going to therapy and such.  Plus I haven’t had a chance to change since I got here.”

“You could have at my flat.”

“Well, I didn’t.  I’ll live.”  I plopped into an armchair in the shop window.  “What’s it like at the clinic?”

 

 

 

We decided to stay at the coffee shop, since it was warm and the chairs were comfortable.  A little after noon, my phone buzzed with a text.

**You close? I’ve got thirty min –L**

_Coffee shop around the corner.  No rush –C_

“Who’s that?”

“Greg.  Just letting me know he’s on his way.”  A thought struck me; I sent off another quick message before he could get here and tucked the phone back in my purse.

_John knows me as Mary.  I’d appreciate you referring to me as such. –C_

“How do you know each other?  He said you were a family friend but didn’t elaborate.”

Right.  Umm… I used to tag along after a young genius who happened to stumble onto a crime scene one day, take a brief look around, and solve the whole thing in five minutes?  Nope, can’t tell him that…

Thankfully Lestrade chose that moment to walk through the door, setting off the cheery bell.  I jumped up to greet him before John could realise it was taking me far too long to answer.

“Greg, hi!  It’s great to see you!”

He wrapped me in a paternal hug.  “I can’t believe it’s you.  How’ve you been?”  In my ear he whispered “Mary?”

“Agency.  I’ll explain later,” I murmured back, then withdrew from his arms.  Out loud I said, “Fine.  I’m glad to be back.”  I sat back down in my chair. 

Discussion moved towards eating plans, since it was Greg’s lunch.  In the shuffle, the question about our acquaintance was luckily forgotten.  It had raised a good issue though – I needed to clarify some background information, and soon. 

“So, when do you start at Bart’s?”

I grimaced sheepishly at John.  “I don’t.”

Greg frowned at me meaningfully.  Still working with Mycroft then.  “I thought you were.”

I shrugged at him.  “I wasn’t accepted.  I’ve been out of the country for too long.”  Really, it just wasn’t one of Mycroft’s better ideas.  I couldn’t keep an eye on John if I was off pretending to be a student all day, and in all honesty I was tired of playing that role.  It was becoming increasingly clear to me that Myc’s strengths, while formidable and extensive, did not include sending someone into the field; either that or he held far too much faith in my acting abilities.

“So then what are you doing here?” John asked.  “If you’re not studying.”

“Spending time here so I can reapply.  Getting away from the states.”

“Visiting a grave?”

I scowled at Greg.  “No.  Don’t go there.”

He held his hands up in surrender.  “Fine.  Though I think it’s about time you got over it and at least said goodbye to him.”

“This really is not the time for this conversation.  I just got here, at least give me a week before you drag him into things.”

“Yeah, any time you guys want to tell me what’s going on that would be fabulous.”

I looked over at John.  “Greg’s trying to send me a not-so-subtle message about my personal life, something that really _isn’t his business_.”

“He missed you.”

“ _Greg.”_

“Greg,” John put in, “Mary needs a place to stay.  She mentioned staying with you, but with the divorce…”

I shot John a grateful look as Greg shook his head.  “My place is not somewhere anyone wants to be right now.  Sorry.”

“I’d offer to let you stay with me, but there’s no guest room.  You’d be on the sofa.”

“The sofa would be fine,” I said quickly.  “Seriously, John, it’s somewhere to sleep.”

“Well, if it’s alright with you I don’t mind.”

“Thank you.  You’re an absolute life saver.  Hopefully I’ll be out of your hair in a few weeks at the most.”  I rested my head on my hand.  "That reminds me though – I do need to start looking for a job.” 

“Actually, I think I can help there.”

I tilted my head at Greg.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.  Our administrative assistant recently quit and they’re hiring a replacement.  I could put in a good word for you.”

“Mycroft?” I mouthed.  He nodded briefly.  I rolled my eyes but played along.  “Sounds fantastic.  Where do I send my resume?” 


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, now I'm going to try to update every Friday. I got stuck trying to fix the end of this chapter and it took longer than I thought it would. Anyway, I'm going to post two chapters today so that I'm still on schedule, especially since the next one is kinda short.  
> Feedback is appreciated! I'd love to know what you think :)

Over my first week with John we settled into an easy routine.  The process of applying and being hired at NSY took less than two days, Mycroft’s involvement blaring from every stage (but in this case, not really unwelcome).  Technically I was hired as an administrative assistant to the entire homicide division, around mostly to process paperwork and answer telephones; in reality I used it as an excuse to glance over files and try my hand at observation on a criminal level again.  Even though the skills Sherlock taught me came in handy while working for the agency, it was primarily for surveillance purposes, things like data collection and knowing who to manipulate so I could get where or what I wanted.  It had been years since I’d applied them to finding a criminal, so now that I was in a position to see cases I took full advantage.  Every once in a while Greg would even sneak me photographs on an active case so I could provide some insight.  I wasn’t Sherlock, I didn’t have his experience or extensive encyclopaedic knowledge, but it felt good to help however I could. 

Mornings were peaceful.  John and I were both early risers, so there wasn’t any conflict in terms of disturbing the other’s sleep.  We moved naturally around each other, rotating effortlessly through the flat in comfortable choreography.  Often I would walk with him to the clinic before taking a bus to NSY.  I then wouldn’t see him until evening; his workday ended before mine and he refused to come to New Scotland Yard (though he never explained why), so we just agreed to both go straight to the flat when we finished.  Supper was a quiet affair, sometimes homemade and sometimes ordered in, and never with much conversation beyond the obligatory “how was your day” question and “fine” response.  But between the two of us it quickly became clear that we really weren’t all that fine.

 

 

It only took me a couple days to notice that John rarely ate much.  He never took a lunch with him to the clinic.  If I was lucky I could get an apple or a slice of toast into him in the mornings, but more often than not dinner comprised of me eating (admittedly not much, but still eating) and him picking.  However, it wasn’t until halfway through my second week that I really saw the effects.

John always showered in the mornings and I always did at night.  That meant I used the time he was in the shower to retrieve clothes from the drawers I’d been allotted in his wardrobe and get dressed.  On this particular morning I overslept, so the shower was already running by the time I pulled myself off the sofa.  I was still deciding on a shirt when John walked into the bedroom wearing nothing but the towel wrapped around his waist. 

One glance and it was immediately obvious that I hadn’t seen him without a bulky jumper since I had returned to London.  It wasn’t anything I’d really noticed – it was December, everyone was wrapped up – but now that he was without the thick outer layer I could clearly see how much weight he’d lost. 

He stared at me in surprise for a moment, plainly not expecting me to still be in the room.  I opened my mouth but he cut me off before I could say anything.

“Don’t.  I already know, and I’m working on it.”

“John – “

“I’m working on it.”

I nodded acceptance and the day continued as usual.  If I watched him more closely at mealtimes from then on, neither of us acknowledged it. 

 

 

I had been there for almost a month the first time I heard him having a nightmare.  I could typically tell in the mornings if he’d had one the night before, and I tended to be up at ungodly hours at least twice a week myself, but somehow these moments didn’t seem to overlap. 

One night in early January I had a particularly bad one concerning Sherlock and explosives.  It was the first time I dreamed about him since learning of his death and I awoke with a shout and burning eyes, my dark plaited hair swinging against my back and stray curls sticking to my sweaty face.  I was dragging myself down the hall in the hope that a warm shower would help soothe my frayed nerves when I heard quiet gasping from the bedroom.  Tentatively I bypassed the bathroom door and headed towards the sounds instead.  The door slid open silently under my hand, my eyes automatically scanning the darkened room, and I winced in sympathy at the scene before me.

John was curled on his side, one hand tucked protectively around his middle.  The other arm was reaching for something, hand hanging off the bed, grasping, pleading.  Tears soaked slowly into his pillow.  As I crept closer I could make out muffled words among the choked cries; none were very clear except for a plaintive “my friend…he’s my…”

“John?”

The reaching hand curled in on itself.  I sat down on the edge of the mattress and cautiously brushed my fingers against the skin of his knuckles.  “John?  It’s not real, he’s not here.”  I slipped my hand into his and squeezed softly.  “John, you need to wake up.”

 Suddenly the hand shifted, gripping my wrist firmly but not too tightly.  It took me a second to realise that he was taking my pulse, his doctor’s hands finding the spot with the ease of practise even in nightmare-fevered sleep.

I raised my voice but didn’t move.  “John, you need to wake up now.  You’re dreaming.  John.”

He startled awake with a muted gasp, his eyes unfocussed.  Still fuzzy with the nightmare, they widened in some unrecognisable emotion (fear? Anger?) as a whispered “Shhh?” slurred between his teeth.  The hand not wrapped around my wrist started reaching unsteadily for my curly fringe of bangs.  I frowned, confused, but before I could ask what he meant his face settled into recognition.  “Mary,” he breathed, his shaking hand dropping to the mattress.

I nodded.  “You were having a nightmare.”

He seemed abruptly aware of his other hand, releasing my wrist sharply and drawing quickly away.  “Sorry.  Did I wake you?”

I shook my head.  “No.  _I_ was having a nightmare.”

We stared at each other for a moment, then the sheer awkwardness took over and we burst into rueful giggles.  Mycroft’s comment at the airport suddenly seemed remarkably appropriate.

I sighed softly.  “I should try for some more sleep.  It wouldn’t hurt you either.”

“Yeah, I will.”

I nodded once and moved back out to the sitting room.  The images from my dream had faded enough that I was able to drift into a light sleep without too much trouble. 

The next morning we got ready for the day as usual.  That night was never discussed, but from then on it became habit to check on each other during our respective moments of insomnia. 

 

 

“Mary.”  I blearily glanced up from my computer to see Greg standing over my desk, face tensed in urgency.  Once he saw he had my attention, he handed me a clipboard.  “Here.  Take this, bring a pen, and follow me.”

Forty-five minutes later saw me walking onto a crime scene while briskly writing down the last of the preliminary notes Greg had dictated on the drive over.  Given that I was right on his heels, no one questioned my presence there, but their acceptance didn’t do anything to ease my confusion.  As soon as he came to a halt in front of  the body, I leaned over to whisper in his ear.  “What am I doing here?”

“Being an assistant.”

“This is not in my job description.”

“You were bored.”  He grinned wryly at me when I didn’t respond, then turned back to the body.  “Now.  What’ve we got?”

I chuckled a little and spent the rest of the time at the scene finding ways to make myself useful. 

Greg approached me as the sun was beginning to set.  “I’ve got a few errands to run on your end of town, and it’s getting to be the time you usually leave.  Want a ride?”

“That would be great.”  I finished consulting on details with the photographer before I made my way to Greg’s car, where he was waiting with the engine already running.  “Please tell me you weren’t antagonising him,” he said as I climbed into the passenger seat.

“I may have politely and subtly steered him towards certain specifics.”  I winked.  “Don’t worry, I do have some semblance of tact.”

John was just getting back to the flat when we pulled up in front, and he raised a hand in greeting when he saw Greg in the driver’s seat.  Greg smiled and waved back as I got out and followed John into the flat. 

He was already filling the kettle by the time I made my way to the kitchen.  I slumped in one of the wooden chairs around the table, tired and achy from an afternoon spent clambering around outside in heels.  “I sincerely hope some of that is for me.”

“I’ll think about it.”  He leaned against the counter, a small grin spreading over his face.  “Long day?”

“Greg actually took me to a crime scene this afternoon.  These shoes are not conducive to wandering a crime scene for three hours.”  I kicked them viciously from my feet. 

He laughed, one of the first real laughs I’d heard from him in the month or so we’d lived together.  I couldn’t help but smile back at him. 

The laughter was brief, but he continued to smile as he turned to the worktop to start dinner.  “You never did tell me how you know him,” he commented.

“Neither did you,” I replied.  I knew it was an obvious avoidance technique, but I was too tired to try and think up a good explanation. 

He huffed quietly, an attempt at a casual laugh but without the mirth necessary to make it convincing.  It just sounded strained.  “Mutual friend.”

“Mmmm.  Anyone I know?”

“Probably not.”  He suddenly became fascinated with the whistling kettle.

So it was _that_ friend.  When I thought I may have found a safe topic, too.  His recent past was such a sensitive subject; any time it came up I got the sense he was editing – heavily – and he made sure the conversation was brief.  Not that I was much better – between international secrets, my involvement with the ST Project placing my personal information at a premium, and a past I was trying to forget, there wasn’t much I could talk about in terms of work or family. 

A cup of tea materialised on the table in front of me.  “So?”

“Hmm?  Oh, me and Greg.  Uh, same.”

“Ah.” 

Uncomfortable silence descended, both of us staring awkwardly into our mugs.  It really wasn’t healthy, I reflected, the way we both buried ourselves in layers of lies and half-truths in an attempt to protect ourselves.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t in a position to stop doing it myself anytime soon – and as for John, I had no idea how to ease the pain he hid behind a mask of stoicism. 

His chair squealed against the lino, breaking my line of thought.  “Telly?”

“Mmm.  Yeah, sure.”

Maybe someday, I thought.  Maybe. 


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted two chapters today, so if you haven't read chapter seven yet make sure you do that first!

Phoenix in January was unexpectedly chilly.  You would think a desert would be consistently moderate, but the weather seemed to be just as exasperating as the people.  Take today, for example: 15.5°C with a cutting wind and 100% chance of idiocy.

He gathered his thin jacket closer, wishing once again for the high collar of his old coat.  At least it wasn’t raining.  The sky was a clear cerulean, not a cloud in sight.  It meant any evidence his target left would stay long enough for him to analyse completely.  Seattle had been a nightmare for collecting evidence.  Given that he couldn’t approach anything immediately, in case he was being followed, he lost far too many details to the incessant rain.

Movement caught his eye through the window of the café he was watching.  Not his target; the leader of a local smuggling ring was still seated in a corner at the back of the café.  The distraction came from a young blonde woman attempting to pass herself off as a university student, though he could see she was probably several years out.  He wouldn’t normally pay attention to a random woman, but she had appeared in the same place as the people he followed too many times for coincidence.

As it turned out, she was just having the hot water refilled for her tea.  He sighed, bored, as she settled back behind her laptop.  Surveillance was his least favourite part of his mission.  Over the last six months he’d come to dread solving puzzles, since it meant he would inevitably spend the next few weeks just watching and collecting evidence before he could make a move.

Ten minutes later the woman answered her mobile and started speaking animatedly as she packed her laptop into a shoulder bag.  His eyes flicked to the back corner of the café, where the focus of his attention was gathering his empty cup and used napkins.  He glanced back to the woman. She sat relaxed in her seat, seemingly only focused on her mobile, but her eyes skimmed briefly to the man’s table.  To the casual observer her eyes were just wandering.  She was good, he had to – however grudgingly – admit.  Even if she did set his schedule back two weeks with that little blunder in Los Angeles.  He wasn’t entirely convinced it was an accident, anyway.  More like two different plans that didn’t really work well when utilised at the same time.

She chatted a few moments longer, during which time their shared quarry made his way out of the café and down the street.  He fought the urge to follow at a safe distance, choosing instead to take the woman’s lead and linger in his hiding place.

Barely a minute later he was rewarded as she rose and hiked the computer bag onto her shoulder.  As she made her way from the coffee shop her expression changed, becoming serious.  Now that she was on the street her conversation became audible, a gentle dialogue in an American accent which, though nearly flawless, contained to the discerning ear a subtle French lilt.

“– in London permanently?  How long is permanently?”  She frowned slightly at the response.  “But I’ll need you here…no, not right now…yeah, but I can only watch this guy for so long…Yes, I understand that…official?  Can he do that?”  She settled at a bus stop, clutching the bag on her lap.  By his reckoning, he had eight minutes before the next bus came by.  He could risk following her, or try to retrieve data from the shop.

He crossed the street, moving to stand inconspicuously behind her.  She ignored him, but her face and tone had shifted back to “student” as he crossed the street.

“Look, Vi, I gotta go,” she quipped.  He noticed her shift to keep him in her sight – she’d noticed him before, then.  Good for her, even if it could make his job harder.  He needed more information on who she was.

The bus arrived two minutes before he’d expected.  Not through any fault of his own, of course – Valley Metro busses were irritatingly unreliable.  He took a seat across from her as they boarded, keeping his face carefully blank as he mulled over the segment of conversation he’d heard. 

She had a partner, that much he’d deduced previously.  It was obvious she hadn’t purposefully sabotaged his attempt in Los Angeles, but her plan, if he figured it out correctly (which he had, obviously), only would have worked with two people.  As they were clearly undercover, they wouldn’t use their real names, so Vi (likely Violet) was an alias.  A somewhat common name, if a bit outdated.  However, it was also an alias he’d heard before.  Last he’d heard of that name was that she was on her way to America, though her exact destination and purpose hadn’t managed to penetrate the fog of withdrawal.

So, coincidence?  Highly unlikely.  However, her return to London didn’t make sense…unless called there by a certain British government official.  But why?  Her agency was far outside his reach, so it wasn’t through them.  A personal mission was the most reasonable answer, though why he would need her specifically wasn’t nearly as clear.  The more important question was, what had she been doing here before going back home?  And what was she doing getting herself involved with a target as dangerous as this?


	10. Chapter Nine

My phone trilled noisily, breaking the peaceful silence of the early morning flat.  Given that a) it was Saturday and b) I woke from a nightmare around 4 am, I was the only thing awake.  I lurched from the sofa to the coffee table in an attempt to answer it before it woke John.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” I demanded.

“6:34 am.  Sorry, I don’t decide when murder victims are found.”  Greg.

“A case?”

“If you can get here in the next fifteen minutes you’ll even get a chance to see the body.”

I wrinkled my nose.  “I’m not Sherlock, Greg.  You don’t have to make it sound like you’re giving me a birthday present.”

“Yeah, alright.  Point taken.  Bring coffee.”  He rung off.

I scribbled a quick note for John and stuck it on the fridge, grabbed a coat, and rushed out the door.

 

 

I was greeted with grateful murmurs when I arrived bearing caffeine.  Six weeks into working there, I was becoming a familiar face at crime scenes.  Even though it really wasn’t in my job description, I had become a PA of sorts to Greg and by extension his team.  Nobody knew that I was feeding him observations about cases, but they did notice the solve rate going up.  I became a sort of good luck charm – between that and the coffees, no one seemed to mind me being there.

“What’ve we got?” I muttered to Greg as I handed him his drink.

“Looks pretty open and shut, honestly,” he replied.  “Teams have been here over an hour now.  Only problem is most of what we’ve got is circumstantial.”

“Give me five minutes.”

He nodded and handed me his cup and a notebook so I could follow under the pretence of holding his stuff, then headed back towards the scene with me on his heels.

 

 

Fifteen minutes later Greg had his evidence and I was jotting down notes for the report.  He shooed me away as soon as I handed them to him.  “Go try to enjoy the rest of the weekend.”

“Sure you don’t want me to help type these up?”

“Yes.  I need to look over them anyway.  Go home.”

I had barely made it to the main road when my mobile vibrated with a text.

**Can you grab milk?  We’re out**

_Sure.  I’m cooking tonight, anything you want?_

**You cooking?  Maybe I’ll order in**

_Oi, I can cook :P_

**Toast.  And mine was burnt yesterday**

_You were talking to me.  Not my fault._

**Sure ;)**

_Do you want dinner or not?_

**Pasta sounds good**

_Pasta and milk.  Anything else for the list?_

**Nope.  Thanks Mary**

_No problem.  I’m on my way to Tesco now.  I should be home in 45 minutes._

**See you then**

Considering it was the weekend, the store was reasonably uncrowded.  I’d gotten the milk and was searching for fettuccine (John’s teasing aside, I could make a mean alfredo) when my phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered distractedly, balancing the mobile between my head and shoulder. 

“Vi?”

My first instinct was to glance up, startled, but I quickly suppressed it in favour of remaining carefully neutral.  “Rose?  What’s up?”  Which really meant _what on Earth is going on, you scared me to death hanging up on me last week._

“I’m at home, we can talk for real.  Sorry about not calling back sooner.”

“I’m at Tesco’s,” I replied.  Not safe for me to speak plainly in public.  “Do you need anything?”

“I see.  No, I’m fine.  That guy from the LA screw-up was following me, but I don’t think he’s a threat.  Just curious.  He’s after T too, which is why he kept cropping up.”

Aha, found the fettuccine.  “He wants tea?  English Breakfast?”  _He’s following T?  Is he one of ours?_  

“I think he’s an independent.  You know that ring in Tucson we were keeping an eye on?  He’s down there now taking care of it.”

“Are you guys in touch?”  I started walking my purchases to the check-out, snagging a box of tea on  the way for appearances’ sake.  It was highly unlikely I was being followed, but caution won out over logic.  We were starting to run low anyway.

“He made contact first.  I was sceptical at the beginning, but I think I can trust him.  He’s helped me avoid a couple scrapes already.”

I was still wary about it, but I was glad there was somebody to watch her back for me.  “Well, you have good instincts.  You should still keep me in the loop.”

“Absolutely.  I’ll be in touch next week at the latest.”

“Alright.  Bye.”

“Bye.” 

Out of sudden curiosity I blurted “Did he give you a name?”

“James.  Not sure if that’s a first or last name though.  It’s almost certainly an alias.”

It didn’t mean anything to me.  I honestly wasn’t sure why I asked.  “Alright.  Stay safe.”

“Yeah, you too.”

The cashier was glaring at me impatiently, so I ended the call and reached for my purse.

 

 

“I’m back,” I called into the flat, walking to the kitchen.

John was seated at the table, his laptop open and humming.  “Good morning.  How was the case?”

I shrugged and placed the bags on the worktop.  “Easy.  Fairly open and shut.  I could’ve solved it.”  I did, but he didn’t get to know that.

“At least you got home early.  It’s barely nine.”

“Yep.  Have you eaten?”

He stared silently at the computer screen.  I suppressed a sigh and walked over to the fridge.

“D’you want toast or eggs?”

“Eggs.”

“You want cheese?”

He raised an eyebrow at me.

“I’ve been living in America.  They put cheese on their eggs.”

“No thanks.”

“You’re missing out,” I teased.

“I lived this long,” he sniffed.

The kitchen fell silent, the only sounds coming from the sizzling eggs and tapping keys on his laptop.

He didn’t look away from the screen when I set the plate in front of him, but he did nod in distracted acknowledgement.  “Ta.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“Email.”

I poured myself a glass of milk; quiet settled again.

“Who was he?”  The question shot out before I could stop it.

“She.  Harry’s short for Harriet,” he replied, not really paying attention.

A somewhat blasé answer considering we were discussing a dead person, but everyone grieves differently, I suppose.  “Girlfriend?”

He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the idea.  “Sister.  Says she’s sober again, though I doubt it’ll last long.  Never does.”

Oh, his email.  “No, I meant the friend who died.  Who was he?”

Finally he looked at me, his face blank but eyes pained.  “Who told you about that?”

The meddling, overprotective British Government.  “Um, nobody really.  I just – well, you did, kinda, I mean,” jeez, Liv, get to the point, “your nightmares are about someone specific…”  The look he was giving me was not improving.  “God, sorry, I don’t know why I asked.”  I could actually feel my cheeks flushing.  This was so not my area.  Manipulation, playacting, fine.  Real-life emotional issues?  Yeah, right. 

I fully expected him to curse me out of the room, considering the expression on his face.  But instead - “My flatmate,” he said unexpectedly, his voice disconcertingly emotionless.  “He committed suicide.”  He turned back to his computer, clearly signalling the conversation over.  I was going to just leave it, go to the sitting room to give him space, but my mouth was being irritatingly independent today.  This time what spilled out was “My br-best friend died.  A – a few months ago.”

His eyes flicked back to me for a brief second.

I cursed my treacherous tongue but continued, “I’m just saying I get it.”

He scowled at his laptop.  “I doubt it.”

His hostility, while probably justified in the face of my probing, startled me.  It was so out of character for the level-headed John I knew.  Whoever this guy had been, it was more than just his flatmate.  “No, not like that. I mean that…um…I get that I couldn’t ‘get it’.  Nobody knows exactly what you’re going through.  That ‘sorry’ doesn’t make anything better and can’t bring him back, doesn’t fix nasty parting words or hurt feelings or everything you regret.”  What was wrong with me today?  Blurting random questions and now this babbling?  I stared awkwardly into my milk, running a finger nervously around the edge of the glass before realising what I was doing and setting the cup on the worktop behind me.

John’s eyes had taken on a suspicious edge during my ranting, but were now softening slightly.  He nodded once, an acceptance of my apology for bringing the subject up, but didn’t say anything.

I sighed nervously.  “I’m just gonna…um…you know…”  And grabbing my glass, I fled the kitchen.


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters I could keep tweaking forever, so I'm just gonna go ahead and post. Let me know what you think :)  
> Just as a warning, there's a description of a nightmare in this chapter. It's nothing too graphic, but there is a brief mention of a child in distress so if that bothers you then you might want to tread carefully with this one.

“…and I’ll have that case typed up for you by the time I leave tomorrow.”

“By lunch would be best.  I’m getting pressure from above.”  I could hear the strain in Greg’s voice.  Between last week’s high profile case and this week’s apparent serial killer (only two bodies but no connection other than MO – we were all just waiting for number three) the entire team was exhausted and stretched thin.

“I’ll do my best.”  I shifted on the sofa so I could stretch my legs while switching the mobile to my other ear.

“How’s John?”

“Sleeping, finally.”  Ever since our awkward kitchen conversation two months ago it seemed like his nightmares were getting progressively worse, even though we’d never brought the topic up again.  Worryingly, his approach to the problem was to stay awake until he dropped on to the nearest piece of furniture and started snoring.

“You sound like you’re his mum.”

“I feel like his mum.  He won’t eat, he won’t sleep; he’s in mourning, Greg, and the worst bit is he won’t admit it!  He’s stuck in denial and I don’t know how to help him move on.”

“You’re not his therapist, Livvie.  That’s not your job.”

“Mary.  And I’m his friend.”

“That’s not the same thing.  Look, I know you do your best, but you can’t force him to open up to you.”

“This isn’t healthy, Greg.  I’ve never seen him like this.”

“To be fair, you did only know him for five months before he was shot.”

“We were at war.  People died.  People he cared about.  He never responded like this.”

I didn’t hear whatever he said next, since a loud thud from the bedroom pulled my attention.

“I gotta go,” I interrupted, pressing END without letting him respond.

I didn’t see John upon first entering the room, but I could see the sheets where they’d been pulled mostly off the bed.  Seconds later I heard quiet gasping from the other side of the mattress.

“John?”

“Fine,” he heaved breathlessly.

Convinced he was lucid enough to not perceive me as a threat and attack, I climbed hesitantly onto the bed to look down at him.  “What happened?”

“Fell.”  His face was tucked into the tops of his knees.  The breaths had slowed but his shoulders still trembled.

Wordlessly I slipped down next to him.  We sat with our backs to the wall for a while, not touching but still taking comfort from each other.

“This isn’t good for your knee,” he eventually whispered.

“Probably isn’t great for your back either,” I retorted.

He bumped me softly with his shoulder.  “M’not _that_ old.”

I stood with a (slightly exaggerated) moan, then hobbled stiffly to the chair in the corner of the room.  He’d been right, of course – my knee complained the whole way.  I flopped into the chair, stretching my legs in front of me to get comfortable.  His face stayed buried for several more minutes.  My plan was just to stay until he fell asleep again, but by the time I heard him easing to his feet I was already dozing off against the red paisley cushions.

 

 

It was just another routine job.  Get in, look around, get out.  Nothing tricky or complicated, not even an alarm system to make things interesting. 

Then I was inside and it was dark and everything was going to plan.  And I found what I was looking for…found it almost too quickly…

Then I was blinded as the lights flashed on, couldn’t see the person but I could hear them, knew they could see me.  If I got out of this alive there was going to be a lot of paperwork…

Then I was running, sprinting across gravel, ignoring the pain in my hands and legs and feet as sharp fragments sprayed up and bit at my skin.  And I heard the child screaming behind me.  Turned to face him.  Watched in confused horror as a stranger’s ginger curls darkened to familiar black ones, as sharp green eyes faded to ethereal silver and the round face lengthened into features I’d recognise anywhere.  Knew without a doubt he wouldn’t make it but screamed at him anyway to run!  Run!  Faster, you can make it, though I knew he wouldn’t, knew how this was going to end.  Run!

“Run!”

“Mary!  Mary, come on, wake up, it’s me.  It’s alright.”

Cautious hands on my shoulders, solid but light.  Reassuring.  That voice – I knew the voice.  It meant safety, control.  Follow the voice.

I jerked awake, nearly smacking my forehead into John’s.  His face floated in  the nothingness; the wasteland still echoed on the black – but that didn’t make sense, I didn’t know John back then.

“Mary, look at me.”

The order, however gentle, was an order.  Habit forced me to abandon my sporadic thoughts, if only for a moment, to listen.  Scattered images of the bedroom registered in my mind as my eyes darted, panicked, around the room.  I tried to focus on the face in front of me but still couldn’t, had to glance away to look for the boy.  Did he make it?  Or no – John was here, so the boy…was from the past…?

Those solid, real hands again, guiding me out of the chair.  Easing me to a seat on the edge of the mattress.  Leaving for one frightening moment as he circled to the other side of the bed, then taking my shoulders from behind, encouraging me to lie down beside him.  I focussed on the feel of his hands and the assurance of their weight, the security of his arm as he settled it across my shoulders. 

“Mary, breathe slowly.  With me.  Slowly.”  His voice was barely more than a whisper in my ear.

I listened, trying to sync my frantic hyperventilating with the even in-out-in-out against my side. 

Slowly I eased completely awake; reason returned.  The tension seeped away from the body next to me as he felt me calm and my breathing slow.  I stayed there for a while, revelling in the feeling of relaxation – of safety.  I so rarely felt this way, like nothing was about to go wrong.

Unfortunately, being awake meant I was thinking clearly again.  It wasn’t long before I decided that I was being selfish.  He slept so little these days, he needed as much as he could get.

As I started to sit up, his hand tightened minutely around my shoulder. Confused, I glanced at him.  He was watching me carefully.

“The bed is more comfortable than that chair,” he murmured.  “I don’t mind sharing.”

I settled back against him.  “I am feeling a little stiff.”

As we started to drift into unconsciousness I savoured the sensation of him being near.  Just having his companionship was nice.  Somehow, knowing he understood the nightmares made slipping into slumber that much easier – nothing could really keep them away and I knew that, but having his understanding meant I didn’t have to worry about it when they did happen.  I curled up under his arm, tucking my head against his chest.  His cotton t-shirt rubbed against my cheek, soft and soothing, as his arm closed protectively tighter around me. 

Tentatively I placed my arm across his chest, a promise to protect him from his phantoms as he was protecting me from mine.  His hand came up to twine with my fingers, an acceptance and reciprocal promise.  I fell asleep that way, lulled by the peaceful rise and fall of his breathing beneath my head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr is set up now! I'm going to link to AO3 every time I update and I'll also be putting up little character sketches and stuff like that, so come follow me if you're interested in seeing my writing process :) You can search for me as hastabeclever.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of past abuse in this chapter. It's a brief discussion that occurs shortly after she goes to get tea, so if you don't want to read that part you can skip it without having to skip the whole chapter.

When I woke up the next morning it was in that lazy, muddled way you have when you’re warm and secure, so it took my sleepy brain a second to register what had actually wakened me – the slide of the front door lock. Considering the fact that I was currently resting against John it couldn’t be him, so…my mind shot into defensive mode.

Instinctively I rolled onto my feet and dropped to a crouch, reaching under the bed for my trademark knife – the one my scrabbling fingers quickly reminded me was tucked under the sofa. Swearing under my breath, I moved silently to press myself against the wall beside the door to give myself the advantage of surprise over any trespasser trying to get into the bedroom.

John, roused by my sudden exit from the bed, was blinking at me in soft, sleepy confusion.

“Intruder,” I mouthed at him.

His eyes widened for a moment while he listened; then he chuckled at me, face folding into an amused smile. “I gave Greg a key,” he said, swinging his legs out of bed. “It’s just him.”

I stared at him as he calmly stood and stretched. “You’re sure?”

Then Greg’s voice echoed down the hall. “John?”

John smirked at me. “Fairly.” He snagged a towel from the wardrobe and headed for the bathroom, greeting Greg on his way there.  

I frowned at him, still a little disoriented, and followed him out the open door. Greg was standing at the entry to the little corridor, his face concerned. It quickly turned red when he saw me leaving John’s bedroom.

I rolled my eyes at him before he could say anything. “I fell asleep in his armchair by mistake.” A partial truth, yes, but still more truthful than what he was clearly assuming.

He still seemed confused but thankfully didn’t pursue the topic further, just stared at me uncomfortably. I huffed at him impatiently. “You’re lucky I wasn’t on the couch, you could’ve ended up with an extra nostril. You should’ve phoned ahead.”

His embarrassment quickly transformed into an irritated scowl. “I did. Five times, actually.”

“What?” I reached for my mobile before realising it was still where I dropped it on the coffee table the night before. When I picked it up there were notifications for a few texts in addition to four missed calls, one from Mycroft and three from Greg (he phoned John when he couldn’t get me then; no good since John charges his phone in the kitchen at night). The time also blared at me in bold numbers. “It’s quarter to nine?”

“Why d’you think I’m here? Neither of you showed up to work this morning, nobody could get hold of you, CCTV didn’t show anything –“ I scowled at him over the CCTV comment; he shrugged unapologetically.

“Well, clearly we’re fine. Though I’m not sure he will be when I tell him how late we are.”

“I’ll leave you to that then. I expect you at your desk in half an hour,” he scolded on his way out the door.

 

 

Neither of us talked about sharing a bed and I went back to sleeping on the sofa. It was a one-time thing that happened when we were both over-stretched, and not something that needed to be discussed or repeated.

The following Saturday I fell asleep in the middle of a texted conversation with Rose and woke around two am to John restraining my wrists and shouting my name. As soon as he saw me recognise him he took my hand and led me to the bedroom. Still shaking too hard to protest, I followed mutely behind him.

He had barely sat down beside me on the bed before I curled into him. He didn’t say anything, just hugged me close, making soothing shushing noises every once in a while.

“Who’s Rose?” he eventually murmured, once my trembling settled.

“Hmm?” I snuggled further into his neck.

His arms tightened slightly in response. “You were calling for someone named Rose. Unless you have nightmares about Doctor Who?”

I snorted softly at the joke. “She’s a friend. We were talking when I fell asleep.” I pulled away to look up at him, accidently bumping my head into his jaw. His resulting flinch was more than it should have been for the slight contact. Worried, I leaned across him to flip on the lamp beside his bed. As soon as my eyes adjusted I could see the faint bruising growing along his jawline. “I hit you.”

“I’ve had worse. It’s my fault, I tried to touch you before I let you hear my voice.”

I reached out to probe gently at the inflammation. “I still hit you. You should be icing it.” I tried to get up so I could grab an ice pack from the kitchen, but he gripped my wrist where it lingered by his face.

“Don’t bother, it’s fine.”

“It’s swelling, _doctor_. It’s not fine.”

He huffed at me, but it was half-hearted. “Then make some tea while you’re at it. I never did get the cup I went out there for.”

“Earl Grey?”

“Mmm.”

When I returned ten minutes later with the ice and two mugs of tea, he lifted the duvet for me to crawl under. I raised an eyebrow (only semi-teasingly) but climbed in beside him.

“Tell me about her,” he said, lifting the ice pack to his face.

“Who? Rose?”

“Mhmm.”

I took a sip of tea. “We worked together. We lived together. She’s the closest I’ve allowed myself a friend since leaving London.”

“Why did you leave?”

I shrugged noncommittally. “There was no reason to stay.”

“No family, nothing?”

“Dead or distant.”

“Boyfriend?”

I looked at him sideways, trying to figure out if he was just curious or had an ulterior motive. “No. I swore off men.”

“Oh. Right.” He paused, blinking. “Girlfriend, then?”

I snorted. Of course that’s how he would interpret what I said. “I should’ve said relationships. That wasn’t supposed to be some sort of euphemism, just the truth. I had a boyfriend at uni.”

“Had?”

I rolled my eyes at his attempt at tactful questioning. “Just ask what you mean, John. We’re in the same bed at two in the morning, there’s no need to be polite. I left him when he flung a vase at me.”

He sat up and turned to face me, staring at me solemnly. “Please tell me you mean the first time.”

I stared down into my drink, avoiding the unnameable emotion in his eyes. “That he threw something, yes.”

A breath hissed out between his teeth. “No wonder you have nightmares.”

I frowned at him in irritation. I wasn’t telling him this because I wanted his pity. He of all people should understand that. “I have nightmares because I went to war, John, because I’ve been shot at and been in exploding buildings. I have nightmares because people close to me have died. I don’t have nightmares because some idiot I lived with for less than a year threw a few punches at me.”

“That was no reflection on you, Mary. Domestic abuse-“

“Drop it, John.”

“Did it hit you?”

“Did what hit me?”

“The vase.”

“Oh. Yeah, it did.” I leaned forward and pulled at the neck of my pyjamas so he could see. “Back of my left shoulder. Glass, it shattered on impact. Only a couple of shards went deep enough to scar.”

He ran his fingers softly along the raised lines of tissue. “Was he arrested for this?”

“Arrested and heavily charged, though not immediately. Sometimes it’s good to know someone in law enforcement; Greg hunted him down as soon as he found out.” Along with Sherlock and Mycroft, but there was no need to complicate the story by trying to explain them. We’d never get back to sleep. “We had a row; I was leaving, just to get some air, but he thought I meant for good. He freaked out and threw the vase, and I hit my head against the door when it hit me. He panicked when he saw I was unconscious. Phoned for an ambulance and bolted.” I leaned back against the headboard. “That was almost six years ago, though. I’ve moved on.”

“Not all men are like him, you know.”

The corner of my mouth lifted slightly. “Are you implying something?”

“Certainly not.” He downed the rest of his tea. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Three Continents Watson not take an opportunity to flirt? Of course you were.” I reached for his mug, but he took mine instead and set them on the table next to the lamp, dumping the melting ice pack into one of them so it didn’t soak the bed.

“We can take them to the kitchen in the morning. Go to sleep.”

“I’m going out anyway.”

He flicked the switch, plunging the room back into darkness. “I’d rather you stay. It was nice to sleep more than a couple hours at a time the other night.”

“Are yours really that bad?”

“Sometimes.” He pulled me close to his side. “But it’s also a good excuse to keep you here.”

“I knew it,” I teased back, settling my head on his shoulder. I shifted a little, trying to get comfortable. “You can wake me up, you know. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”

“And do what? Talk about my feelings? Tell you about my dreams?” His voice was suddenly bitter, bordering on outright sarcasm. Clearly it wasn’t the first time someone had tried getting him to discuss his nightmares.

“If it would help.”

“It wouldn’t. It would just be denying you sleep you need.”

I couldn’t think of a response that wasn’t needlessly cheesy or emotional, so I just hummed into his chest. He fell asleep not long afterward, but it was nearly an hour later before I managed to drift after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you decided to skip the discussion, all you need to know is that while she was at university she dated a guy who was abusive, and John gets protective of her when she tells him. It's a character-building type scene.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, plot development!  
> Please comment and let me know what you think. I can only get better with feedback :)

My ringtone was obnoxious.  Especially at three am.  

“Shut it off,” John mumbled half-heartedly.

“Too much work,” I slurred back, but fumbled for the mobile anyway, nearly knocking it from its now-customary place on the bedside table before managing to bring it to my ear.  “What?”

“He’s gone.”

“Who’s gone?”

“T.  Tiger.  He disappeared again.”

I blinked slowly, trying to make my brain wake up enough to process Rose’s urgent voice.  “Where?”

“Flagstaff.  We lost him.”

I sat up, frowning.  “What were you doing there?  Flagstaff is clean.”

“I received orders.  He was moving there too, we followed him, so I assumed the agency knew something I didn’t.”

“They still should have told you something.  What did the orders say?”

“Sitting room,” John groaned at me.  I swung my legs out of bed, grabbing the afghan from the armchair on my way out of the bedroom.  

“Just that I needed to move to Flagstaff by last night.  We had tabs on him all the way in, but as soon as we passed the university here he vanished.”

I curled on the sofa with the blanket.  “He knew you were following him.”

“You think?  We were careful.”  

“Someone tipped him off, probably.  He’s got to have agents everywhere.”

“Be careful, Vi.”

“I will be, but I’m not too concerned for myself.  He’s probably still lurking around there somewhere.  Keep an eye out, he’ll show up again eventually.  He’s gone underground in the past.”  I pulled the blanket up around my shoulders, wishing the old windows didn’t let in so much of the chilly April night.

“True.”

I shuffled down further and rested my head against the arm of the sofa.  “Are you still working with that independent?”

“Yeah, but I think he’s getting antsy.  He says there’s something over in Albuquerque he wants to take a look at.  We might split up for a while if he decides to do that, since I can’t go anywhere without orders.”

“Mmm.  Stay safe, Rose.”

“You sound sleepy.”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“Oh, right.  I hate this time difference.”

“Mmm.”

Silence, a muffled sigh, then, “I guess I’ll let you sleep.”

I was already starting to doze off again.  “Phone if you need anything.”

“You too.  ‘Night.”

I was asleep before the phone made it to the coffee table.

  


Two days later I walked onto a crime scene on Greg’s heels, taking down preliminary notes he was dictating.

“...surname Williams, Caucasian male, mid-30’s, American ID found on body along with U.S. currency and a mobile with an American provider.”

“...American...provider...got it.  Anything else?”

“No indication of airline tickets or hotel room.  Not sure how he got here or where he’s staying.”

“Uh-huh.”  I gave the body at my feet a cursory once-over; paused; frowned.  The man was slender but solid, with light brown hair and fair skin, and was lying prone with his face pressed to the concrete floor of the warehouse he was found in.  Bruises littered the exposed skin of his arms and neck, and the soles of his feet.  Something about his build and colouring triggered a brief memory, enough for me to take a second look.  “I need to see his face,” I murmured so only Greg could hear.

Greg nodded acknowledgement, then addressed the technician working the body.  “Any way we can see the face?”

“It’ll be hard to confirm ID that way, he’s barely recognisable.  Heavy bruising and lacerations consistent with hand to hand combat.  It almost looks like he was tortured, then tried to fight his way free before they could finish with him.”  He carefully shifted the head in our direction, continuing to speak as he did so.  “Similar indications of a brawl on the hands and feet.  Hand-shaped bruising around the throat and a broken hyoid indicate strangulation.”

“Any distinguishing marks?” I asked, keeping my pen moving and my voice nonchalant.  The tech was right; the face was too bruised and swollen for me to be certain of an identity.

The forensics tech nodded and shifted the collar of the man’s shirt.  “Palm-sized tattoo of a bear on his right shoulder.”

I nodded and jotted down a quick note, then extracted my mobile from my jacket pocket as I turned away.  “Excuse me for a minute.”

Greg took my clipboard with a brief sound of acknowledgment, already focussed on his next round of questions. I retreated to an abandoned office on the other side of the warehouse while thumbing a long-memorised number into my phone.

He picked up after only two rings.  “I have three minutes before I arrive at my meeting.  Be brief.”

“Myc, I’ve got a dead operative.  I need you to alert the agency.”

“Pertinent information?”

“I don’t know much about him.  He was loaned to ST from the Domino project in January 2008 to assist us with surveillance in Richmond, Virginia.  His identity at that time was Birch Williams; codename Grizzly.”

“Noted.”

A quiet tap on the door drew my attention to Greg, who was standing in the disintegrating wooden doorframe.  “I need you to take a look at something.”

I followed him back over to the body, still murmuring softly at Mycroft.  “He was dumped in an abandoned warehouse with all of his American ID still on him.”

“What is the name on the identification?”

I reached out to snag the clipboard back from Greg, and caught a flash of movement in the corner of my eye.  I turned just in time to see the tech sliding something into a plastic evidence bag.  “What’s that?”

He handed it to me so I could examine it.  “Found it in his pocket.”

Inside the bag was a small stone, something polished and round that could easily be bought at a toy or trinket store.  The stone itself was an orangey-amber, streaked with varying shades of brown.  It took me barely a second to identify what it was, causing me to swear.  Loudly.  Enough for both Greg and the tech to stare at me in wide-eyed bemusement, and for Mycroft to ask “Liv?” with something almost resembling concern.

“Tiger’s Eye,” I muttered into the phone, turning away with the clipboard under my arm.  “There was a Tiger’s Eye in his pocket.”

Silence from the other end; then “Which identity?”

A quick glance at the notes Greg had added while I was talking to Myc confirmed my suspicions.  “Birch Dominic Williams.”

“Dominic referencing his full-time assignment at Domino, I assume.  Is this identification coincidental?”

“Only if he was working on ST again.  Domino names are different.”

“And the likelihood of that would be…”

“Minimal.”  I inhaled slowly, trying to calm down.  “Myc, Tiger’s unaccounted for.  Rose lost him just a couple of days ago.”

“You think this is him.”

“As far as threats go it’s not very subtle. We know he’s aware of his codename, he practically named himself.”

“Threats?” Greg burst in.  I startled, not realising he’d crept up behind me.  “Who’s being threatened?”

I waved him off, unwilling to deal with his questions.  “Have them check with Rose, but don’t have them tail her.  He’ll take that as a challenge.  We want him to surface again, not kill her off to prove something.”

“Yourself?”

“I’ll be fine.  I don’t think he’s actually here, nor do I believe this was targeted at me specifically.  It was one of my early assignments with the Project, I was working with a large group of operatives. He knows someone from ST is in London and has access to cases with the Met, but he doesn’t know who and probably not how.  Otherwise it would have been more specific.”

“A symbol of you, rather than a generic threat.”

I nodded.  “Yes.  Notify the agency of an anonymous tip.  I have to go, there’s some control here I need to take care of.”

Greg was still standing there, staring at me expectantly.  I tucked my mobile into my pocket, stalling for time while I decided what I could tell him.

“I take it you knew the victim?” he finally asked.

“We’ve met.”  I sighed softly.  “Greg, you’re being pulled from this case.  It is no longer under the jurisdiction of New Scotland Yard.”

“Are you safe?”

The question took me by surprise, enough for me to answer instead of hedge.  “I think so.  This is just an opening message: I’m watching you.  It’s pretty vague.”

“You know who killed him.”

“I’ve got a good idea.”

Greg sighed gustily and turned to face the busy interior of the scene.  “Alright everyone, we’re done here.”

Dozens of heads lifted to stare at him, all activity in the warehouse ceasing.  From the back somewhere issued a quiet “Sir?”

“We’re being replaced by the big guns.  Mr Williams here is making someone up above jittery.  Start packing up.”

I tapped his arm.  “I have to be gone before they get here.  We’re keeping my location quiet.”

Greg wrinkled his nose.  “From your own bosses?”

I dug my hands into my pockets and shrugged.  “I’m on personal assignment.  It’s a safety issue.”

“Yeah, alright.  Get out of here, I’ll meet you at the office in half an hour or so.”

“Good luck with that,” I snorted.  “You’ll be lucky if you’re back before lunch.”

 

 

By the time I made it home that evening, my head was spinning with too many theories and concerns.  I stumbled into the flat and collapsed on the sofa without even checking to see if John was home from the clinic yet.  Wearily my eyes drifted shut without my permission.  

“Mary?  Is that you?”

“Mmhmm.”

I could hear the soft slide of socked feet on the lino change to a gentle padding across carpet as he made his way from the kitchen to the sofa.  “Rough day?”

“Difficult case this morning.  Victim was someone I used to work with.”

The cushions dipped, and a warm, denim-clad thigh pressed against my hip. I cracked an eyelid to look up at his worried face.  

I shook my head at him, reading concern in the lines around his eyes and mouth.  “Don’t worry, I’m okay.  It was just a shock, you know?  Last I heard he was still in the States.”  My eyes closed again.  “I wish I knew why now.  I haven’t worked with him in years.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mary.”

“It’s connected to me.”

“You can’t know that.”

I sat up abruptly, fully prepared to explain exactly how I did know that, the words moments away from spilling off my tongue in an irritated gush, when I paused.  This was John.  Not Mycroft, not Greg.  He didn’t know anything about who I really was, and I needed it to stay that way.  I sighed, a quiet, resigned exhale, and leaned back against the arm of the sofa.  “You’re right.”

He smiled down at me and rubbed my arm soothingly.  “Dinner?”

I nodded.  “It’s my night.  I’ll phone for takeaway in a minute.”

His expression shifted to something unreadable, somewhere between giddy and sheepish.  

I narrowed my eyes at him, not sure what he was thinking.  “What?”

“I was thinking more like an actual dinner.”

I frowned distractedly, trying to decide if there was anything worth eating in the flat.  “I haven’t been to the store in a few days, I’m not sure-”

“No, I meant out.  Like-” he blushed a little but pushed on, “like a date.”

I sat up and stared at him.  “A date?”  

“You know, dinner, the cinema.  When two people who like each other –”  He started snarkily but broke off halfway through, clearing his throat.  “We don’t have to.  It’s a weeknight, and you’ve had a hard day.”

I smiled at him warily, unsure what had caused the sudden shift from teasing to serious.  “No, we should.  It will be fun.  What film were you thinking?”

When he grinned at me, my uncertain smile broadened into a full-on beam. Maybe there was something salvageable about this evening after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me on tumblr at hastabeclever.tumblr.com


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one's short, but it's really just a transition scene - like a bridge between plot points. I will be posting on Friday, and it will be longer again, promise! :)

“James, I’m back. You want pizza?”

He grimaced distractedly, more interested in the computer on his lap. “Later.”

A paper plate with a greasy slice of cheese pizza appeared under his nose. “I know it’s been at least two days since you last ate.”

He frowned, still not glancing away from the screen. “I said later. I’m busy.”

The plate landed on his keyboard. “With what?”

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, he carefully moved the increasingly soggy plate away from the laptop. “Personal business.”

“Oh, I see.” He glanced over at Rose just in time to see her roll her eyes as she climbed onto the other squeaky hotel bed. She bit into her slice, ‘mmm-ing’ loudly.

His focus directed back to the computer screen, currently open on a familiar NSY inspector’s list of cases. He frowned at the red note by one of the recent ones – Birch Williams was the victim, and according to the garish scarlet letters it was no longer being worked on by D.I. Lestrade. “Does the name Birch Williams mean anything to you?”

The mattress creaked as she leaned towards him. “It’s an alias. We worked with him once. What about him?”

“Where?”

“Um… East Coast somewhere. New Jersey? Or, no… Virginia, maybe.”

“When was that?”

“A few years ago. Vi and I hadn’t been working together long.” She bit into the pizza again.

“He was found in London.” He clicked on the case to see if he could find more information.

“Wonder what he was doing there,” she muttered distractedly. “Wait… what d’you mean, _found_?”

“He was the victim of a homicide,” he murmured, eyes quickly skimming the brief initial report in the system. “And he wasn’t supposed to be there, if this report is accurate. I really wish there were photographs, these reports always miss the important details.”

“And they actually found him?” Even without looking at her he could hear the frown in her voice. He glanced over at her, raising an eyebrow to invite an elaboration. She set the pizza aside, crossing her arms and leaning back against the headboard. “If I remember correctly, he was part of the project that focuses on international gang societies. I mean the really intense stuff, the ones that the general populace never hear about. If he was killed by the people he was following, he never would’ve been found.”

A detail under “personal items” caught his eye. “Didn’t you say our colonel’s codename was Tiger?”

“Yeah,” she replied warily, standing and coming to stare over his shoulder. “Why?”

“He wasn’t killed by the people in his project, and he was intended to be found.” Already his mind was racing, planning for the wrench in his carefully constructed schedule. “I need to get to London.”


	15. Chapter Fourteen

The day before my birthday, a heavy white envelope appeared in our mailbox with my name penned in intricate cursive along the back. I rolled my eyes and tucked it with the other mail, and promptly pushed it from my mind.

The next day I was typing up case notes in the kitchen when John’s voice floated to me from the hall. “Mary, you’ve got a letter.”

My eyes flicked away from the screen in surprise. He was standing in the arched opening between the front entry and the kitchen, the offending envelope in his hand. I sighed when I recognised it and went back to my notes. “No, it’s a birthday card. I’m choosing to ignore it.”

“I didn’t know it was your birthday.” He turned the card over, looking at it curiously. “Who’s it from? I don’t see a return address.”

“A minor official in the British government,” I murmured distractedly, more focused on my work than what I was saying.

“You know many of those?”

“You’d be surprised.” I looked up at him again, suddenly realising what I had muttered. He was narrowing his eyes in a clear build up to a spree of questions, so I attempted a diversionary tactic. “Feel free to open it if you want. I’m not going to, but I’m sure it was expensive. Someone may as well appreciate it.”

“Why would anyone buy an expensive birthday card?”

“To prove he can.”

He seemed to be deliberating, so I rolled my eyes before flipping to the next page of my notebook. “Open it.”

The sound of ripping paper and unfolded cardstock, a whistle at the obvious cost of the card, and then silence as he skimmed over the no doubt generic polite well-wishes for the upcoming year. Then – “You know Mycroft Holmes?”

My eyebrows shot to my hairline as I made eye contact with him for the third time. “ _You_ know Mycroft?” I’d assumed Myc was extending my protection to John because of services rendered. His tone and use of Myc’s first name implied it was more familiar than that.

His face shut down, all the openness I’d spent the last five months rebuilding disappearing instantly. “I did.”

Okay, then. Changing the subject. “Did you get the tea I asked for?”

The lines in his forehead relaxed slightly. “Yeah. You want a cup?”

 

 

I always loved coming home after a successful mission. There was a feeling of accomplishment that I rarely had when I was at home, just because I was constantly competing and could never quite keep up. Out in the field, I was easily the smartest one in the room. As I tucked my bag under my arm and reached for the keys to the Montague Street flat I couldn’t help but smile to myself, too distracted to notice the foreboding silence from inside.

“Lo?” I pushed the door open, the familiar nickname rolling easily off my tongue. “Lo? I’m home.”

Nothing. I frowned and set my duffel on the worn sofa. “Lo?” _Please don’t let him be high again_ , I thought. _Please_. “I’m back.” Still silence. It didn’t bode well for the sobriety of the flat, especially considering how bored he’d been when I left two weeks prior. “We wrapped up this case early,” I continued as I moved to the back bedroom, hoping against hope he was just caught in thought or focused on an experiment. “I know I was supposed to be another week, but this one was easy. So I’m home in time for my birthday.” His door was closed. “You said you’d take me to dinner this year, remember?” The old hinges squealed as the door swung open under my hand.

I caught my breath in horror at the scene in front of me: Sherlock sprawled on the bed, limbs horribly askew… his face pale, too pale. Dank curls stuck limply to his sweaty face, and those beautiful imitations of Mummy Holmes’ eyes were obscured by thin, twitching lids. I froze in the doorway, all of the medical training I’d just completed for the agency flying from my head to be replaced by paralysing fear.

He murmured soft, incoherent words, his eyelids fluttering briefly open. A slightly deranged grin spread over his face when he saw me, then his head dropped back to the pillow. Somehow I ended up on the bed beside him, landline tucked against my shoulder and hands searching desperately across overheated skin for a measurable pulse. “Come on, come on,” I muttered nervously, not sure if I was talking to the phone or the now unmoving figure below me. The phone responded first. “Sherlock?”

“Myc, it’s me, I’m home. He’s overdosed again.”

“Damn.”

“I don’t know what to do! It’s worse this time, he was… and now… and I can’t… I can’t find…”

“You need to relax. You won’t do him any good if you’re panicking,” he commanded. “Try the carotid.”

I took a deep breath to centre myself, the part of my mind that wasn’t falling apart frowning in disapproval. I never lost it like this during a crisis in the field, why should this be any different? I still couldn’t help the brief sob that escaped when I found the pulse weakly fluttering double-time in his throat. “It’s there.”

“Emergency services are on their way.”

“Myc, this can’t happen again.”

“I agree.” Brief silence. “Happy birthday, by the way.”

The approaching sirens faded softly into blackness, and I sunk away from the memory and deeper into sleep.  

 

~~ ~~

 

The first threat had been found and neutralised, the body disposed of – and disposed of thoroughly, no bumbling Scotland Yard investigations to get in his way until he was well gone – and a message sent to the idiot’s commander. Only a week into his London detour, and already a fifth of the way through the minions posing a direct risk. If he stayed on schedule, he should be back to dismantling the American southwest strand of the web by the end of May. Then once he got Florida and Boston cleaned up (no more than a week each, really, if the southwest was gone), the entire American branch would unravel and he could move on to Europe.

A simple text to Rose _(First one done – J)_ , a change of clothing, a blonde wig and moustache, and he was back on the prowl. The next one would be even easier to find, since he had been able to take the mobile of the first. He rubbed absently at the scratch he’d sustained when his wallet had been tugged from his jacket during the fight, more focussed on mulling over the next stage in his plan than what his hands were doing. It shouldn’t take more than four days, really, to make sure his next target was out of the way… The date on a newspaper caught his eye and interrupted his thoughts. 3 May 2012; she’d be twenty-seven today. He frowned, not sure why it bothered him he’d be missing this one – he’d missed the last several with not even a text, not even thinking about what day it was. Why was he suddenly seized with the urge to send some sort of acknowledgement? Birthdays had never been that important to him in the first place.

He shook his head impatiently. There were much more pressing matters to attend to, matters like keeping her – and John, mustn’t forget John – alive. That ought to be enough for now. He could always buy her a gift next year, if he were still so ridiculously inclined; because he _was_ going to be home next year. This entire endeavour was already taking much longer than he had originally anticipated. It was highly improbable that it would drag on for another year.

Highly improbable. But not impossible. With another frown, he sighed quietly and moved on. He stood a better chance of finishing sooner if he spent more time working and less time ruminating on the future. Practicality was required. Anything else was surplus and detrimental to the Work. Sentiment – pah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research on overdoses and tried to make the memory/dream as accurate as possible, but if anything sticks out as blatantly incorrect please let me know!


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one was a little late! Hope you enjoy :)

The end of May found John laid up with a flu bug he brought home from the clinic. I came home from work one day to see him curled miserably on the sofa, wrapped in blankets and a bucket on the floor by his head. My forehead wrinkled in sympathy.

“You look awful.”

He coughed wetly and curled further in on himself. “Thanks,” he rasped.

“So, those sniffles turned into something more serious. How long’ve you been like this?”

“All day.”

I dropped my purse on the side table. “When was the last time you drank something?”

“Dunno. Nothing stays down.” He coughed again.

“Why are you on the sofa? You should be in bed.”

“Don’t want you exposed.”

I scoffed. “John, I would have been well exposed last night. You know that. You should be in bed.”

“M’fine.”

“Uh-huh.” I lay a hand against his flushed cheeks. “You’re burning up. Where’s the thermometer?”

“It’s 38.9°. I just checked. I took paracetamol. Not sure if it’ll stay down long enough to help.”

102° F, the part of my brain still in America quickly supplied. I frowned. “Right. Well, I’m making tea. I’ll try heating up some broth for you too, we can see if that stays down.” The flu wasn’t exactly cocaine withdrawal, but at least the nausea could be nursed the same way.

He chuckled wryly, the sound catching in his throat and turning into another coughing fit. “Don’t suppose I can convince you it’s unnecessary?” he murmured once it receded.

I grinned at him, already on my way to the kitchen. “That’s what you get for dating a former nurse.”

 

 

An hour later and I had gotten John cocooned in bed, a few sips of tea to stay in his stomach and his fever to recede slightly, and myself seated next to him in case he needed anything. With one hand I gently massaged the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the headache that had clearly been plaguing him for most of the day.

Most of my attention, however, was focused on the case file in my lap. Greg had pulled me in on a case he’d been working for a couple of days, and several factors were making me uncomfortable, not the least of which was the unknown identity of the victim. I squinted at one of the crime scene photos. The body itself had no ID and wasn’t in any of the systems accessible to our division. The dump site was dark, so the pictures were less than ideal, but what I could see of the face was familiar. Not in the way Birch had been; more like I remembered reading a dossier on them. The problem lay in figuring out when, and in relation to which project.  

The other question was why someone I’d learned about for a mission had turned up dead in the middle of London. Most of my focus in the recent past had been on the American branches of the Spider’s web, so either he was from before my time with ST or his superior had sent him to England on a job. If it was the latter, there was a good chance he was at least connected to if not the actual perpetrator of Birch’s murder. But I couldn’t make any assumptions until I knew for sure who the man was.

 

 

I woke in the middle of the night, still propped against the headboard with an awful crick in my neck and the bedclothes plastered to my skin with perspiration. I sat up and stretched, groaning as I pulled at the knotted muscles in my shoulders.

A cursory check on John indicated his fever had thankfully broken sometime during the night, which explained the sweat-soaked sheets. He snuffled softly and pressed against the hand I was resting on his face, but didn’t wake. Gently I eased my way out of bed, careful not to move too quickly for fear of disturbing his much-needed sleep but in desperate need of a glass of water.

The screen of my mobile glowed with an incoming text, enough of a warning that I managed to snag it off the nightstand before it could vibrate noisily against the wood. The alert window popped up, telling me it was from one Greg Lestrade.

**You awake?**

_Yeah. What’s up?_

**Need you to meet me at the scene**

_For what? It’s the middle of the night._

**Found something**

_Photo? John’s sick._

The picture, when it arrived at my phone, was dark and blurry. It was followed immediately by another message from Greg. **Can you see it?**

_Not really. Hold on a tic, I’ll load it onto the computer and mess around with it._

I was anxious not to leave John alone for too long, so as soon as I had my water I retreated to the bedroom with my laptop. I curled up in the armchair, making sure the screen was dim and facing away from the bed so as to not disturb the room’s other occupant.           

Greg phoned while I was still waiting for the photo to load. I answered with a slightly exasperated whisper. “It’s still loading. Hang on.”

“Right. How’s John?”

“Flu. His fever finally broke though.” I tapped impatiently on the computer. “What is it I’m supposed to be looking for? And why were you back at the scene this time of night?”

“Just had a feeling.”

“And you couldn’t have followed the feeling during the day?” The photo manipulation program finally opened the picture I wanted.

“I was awake anyway.”

“Of course you were.” I narrowed my eyes at the screen. “Is this an ID?”

“No photo. It looks like some sort of swipe card.”

As the image gradually cleared, it started to look more and more familiar. “It’s an entry card. Allows operatives access into agency housing.”

“Your agency?”

“Yeah.” I changed a setting and fiddled some more. “You found this at the dump site?”

“Yeah.”

“This might’ve been an official hit by our agents, Greg. I recognised the victim, I know he’s someone we’ve been keeping tabs on. In fact, I think there’s a chance he’s connected to the Williams case from a few weeks ago.”

“Does this mean I’m losing this case too?”

“Probably.” I hummed at the screen. “I’m trying to make out the name, and there’s a strange symbol in the top corner. If those aren’t interesting to…you…” I trailed off as the name started to come into focus.

“Then what?…Livvie?”

“That’s not…” I breathed, leaning closer to the laptop as if that would change the name I could now read. Memories of childhood games started racing through my mind, filled with wooden swords and pirate ships constructed from chairs and sheets.

“Not what?” Greg’s voice shook me out of the daze I’d drifted into. “What’d you find?”

“The name,” I replied. It wouldn’t mean anything to Lestrade. In fact, it really shouldn’t mean anything to me. It was a common name. “The card belongs to a Logan James.” Captain Logan BigBeard and his trusty first mate Liv the Bold. I shook my head, focussing my efforts on the symbol. “This figure isn’t on my card, so I’m not sure what it – no wait, I have seen this before.” The pixilation faded away under my cursor. “He’s an independent; it means he doesn’t work specifically for the agency, but they’re granting him temporary protection and pay. He’s probably a specialist of some sort that they brought in. Like a contractor.”

“An assassin?”

“No, we don’t need independents for that.” I winced a little as soon as the words left my mouth; probably not the best idea to practically state outright to a homicide detective I was a competent killer, even if there was a good chance it was something he knew already. “It’s most likely that he has specific knowledge on a subject, that’s usually what they’re brought in for. Lo and I both worked as independents while I was still at university, before I was sent to special training and he decided it wasn’t for him.”

Greg let out a gusty sigh. “God, it’s been a while since I heard that nickname.”

I frowned. I hadn’t meant to let my childhood name for Sherlock slip out; must’ve been because I was thinking about this Logan James. Though actually…James. “Hey, Greg, I think I know who this guy is. He’s been working with my old partner.”

“What, in America? What’s he doing here?”

“I dunno. I’ll get in touch with her, see if she knows anything.” John shifted and murmured, making me freeze while I waited for him to settle again. When he finally did, I focussed back on the conversation. “I need to go, I should get some more sleep and John’s starting to get restless. I want to make sure he’s alright. I’ll get in touch with the agency about this. There’s a good chance it’ll all just disappear.”

“I expected as much. ‘Night.”

“Good night.”


	17. Chapter Sixteen

A texted conversation with Rose the next day confirmed that James had suddenly dashed off to London without much explanation other than he had discovered something he needed to take care of. She did confirm my suspicion it was related to Birch Williams’ death, but couldn’t elaborate beyond the fact he’d learned about it by hacking Scotland Yard’s cases – something I’d find time to be concerned about later, once he was no longer working with the agency.

John’s flu had thankfully been a 24-hour bug, and it didn’t take him long to get back on his feet. He took the following day off work, but by the evening was trailing me around the kitchen while I prepared dinner, teasing me playfully the whole time. It eventually devolved into a good-natured water fight that ended up with both of us soaked and freezing, and laughing on the kitchen floor. Which turned into other things…we had to shower to warm up, didn’t we?

Of course, that meant Greg had to phone with a case while we were drying off. Instead of crawling into bed for a long snuggle, I had to rush into presentable clothes and scurry off to a crime scene.

I frowned at him as I clicked briskly across the uneven pavement. “I was busy, you know. Not all of us are divorced.”

“I did not need to know that.” He gestured me over impatiently, turning away from the woman next to him who was issuing commands into a mobile. “By the way, this is Sally Donovan. She was transferred off my team for a while because of an inquiry, and now she’s back.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “Be nice, because I don’t need any more bickering between her and my resident genius. Last time didn’t end well.”

I nodded politely at her, already filtering his rambling as unimportant to the case and as such unimportant to me. The scene was by the river and therefore damp and chilly, and I would much rather be at home with John than wandering around a muddy riverbank this late at night. “Why am I here, exactly?”

“Because I don’t want to pull too many more people in if this guy is gonna be removed from my jurisdiction as well.”

“Greg, two cases in the last six months does not a pattern make.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Don’t talk all posh at me. It means you’re snippy and makes you sound like Mycroft and I don’t like it.” His fingers twitched anxiously at his sides; nicotine cravings.

I frowned at him. “You’re smoking again.”

“Can we focus on the case, please? I do actually have a good reason for bringing you in on this one. Here, look busy. Take notes.” He thrust a clipboard at me.

I grasped it ill-naturedly. “So? Why am I here?”

“Recognise him?” He thrust a finger at the photograph pinned beneath the metal clip.

I squinted at it, moving underneath one of the spotlights being set up so I could actually see. “It’s hard to say from this angle. Is the body still here?”

“Yeah. Over here.” He led the way to where the forensics lead was starting to wrap up his initial investigation, waving the man off impatiently. “Well?”

I knelt down beside the body, using the pair of gloves he handed me to tilt the man’s face into the light. It actually was, surprisingly, familiar. I frowned and gestured Greg down beside me so I could whisper to him. “Yeah, he’s a target. I know who this one is, he works directly for Tiger.”

“Another hit?”

“Probably. What made you bring me in? Broken neck is a different COD than the last one, it’s a different dump site, this body’s at least…um – three weeks older? than the other…what made you connect him to the other guy?”

“Both bodies had indications of a fight prior to their deaths. That plus the way they were dumped - it was good. Very good. Both of them really shouldn’t have been found for months, unless something unexpected happened.”

“Like unscheduled maintenance,” I finished, remembering how the other body had been found.

“Exactly. Makes me wonder how many others like them are out there.”

“You probably don’t want to know,” I muttered, rising from my crouch. He frowned at me and stood as well. I crossed my arms defensively. “I know who your killer is, or at least what name he’s going by now, and I can’t say it’s worth it to bring him in. He’s most likely back underground anyway, and he’s under protection of the agency. It would be more hassle than it’s worth to track him down. Besides,” I handed Greg the clipboard, “he’s really just cleaning up a mess of murderers. None of these ‘victims’ are particularly good men to begin with.”

“I have to do my job.”

“Yes, and I have to do mine. Agency officials should be here within the hour.” My phone was already out and a text to Myc halfway composed. “Stick around, they’ll need you to help with information control to your team.”

Greg scowled at me as I tucked the mobile back in my purse and turned to leave. “Why couldn’t I get a normal case, for once?”

“Because normal’s boring!” I called back over my shoulder with a grin.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

A couple weeks later I was curled on the sofa with John, my head on his shoulder while I lost myself in a novel. The evening news played in the background, and his fingers rubbed softly against my wrist while he watched.

His voice suddenly broke the peaceful atmosphere, quiet and tense. “I want to introduce you.”

I slowly set my book in my lap and looked up at him. “Sorry?”

“Tomorrow is the anniversary. I want to introduce you.”

His friend. He wanted to introduce me to his dead friend on the first anniversary of the man’s suicide. Unsure if I should be concerned or flattered, I just stared at him blankly while I attempted to process his request.

His face quickly shut down. “Or not. Sorry.” He cleared his throat in discomfort. “You just remind me of him sometimes, so I thought –.”

“Yes. Of course,” I interrupted. “I would be honoured. You just took me by surprise, is all.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”

I smiled reassuringly and rested my head back on his shoulder. “Thank _you_.”

 

 

I made two cups of his favourite tea after I got home the next evening, hoping it would provide a little comfort on a difficult day. He smiled thinly at me when I handed one to him as he paced – or rather, marched – around the flat.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“I know it’s not much, but I thought it might help a bit.”

He nodded silently, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

“We don’t have to do this.”

His eyes finally focussed on my face. “Yes. I do.”

“Alright then. Are you ready?”

“No.” He inhaled deeply in preparation. “Let’s go.”

 

 

When John and I were first introduced in Afghanistan, in the middle of an unfortunate rush of wounded, I was convinced he was the embodiment of an efficient, well-trained soldier. From his hastily barked orders to the sternness of his posture, he exuded military discipline. Over the time we’d known each other, and particularly the last six months, that image of him had slowly been replaced with someone serious but cordial, passionate both in temper and in humour and deeply loyal to those he loved. But as we entered the cemetery together his bearing seemed to revert back to that first day, growing progressively more rigid the closer we drew to his friend’s final resting place. I watched him, uneasy with the shift and uncertain how to read his blank face and steady march. Clearly it was a coping mechanism, but the question was how well was it working?

I was paying more attention to him than the surrounding gravestones, so I was surprised when he came to an abrupt halt. He stared straight forward, lips thinning to a tight line for a long moment before he could bring himself to speech.

“We’re – this is it.”

I kept my eyes on him, trying to take cues from his body language, unsure how he was expecting me to react. He was gazing at the marker directly in front of us, his eyes clear but glassy. “Mary, I’d like you to meet my best friend, Sher-” his breath caught, he tried again, “Sherlock Holmes.”

It didn’t register at first, the name that he choked out. I was too busy worrying about his mental state to really listen to what he was saying. So when it did manage to penetrate the fog of concern around my brain, my defences were down enough that I responded without thinking, snapping my head around to face the glossy black gravestone. Sure enough, the name Sherlock Holmes gleamed neatly back at me in gold lettering.

“Oh my God,” slipped out in a terrified whisper before I could stop it. Even though I’d known he was buried in London, I had never intended to come anywhere near his grave. I had managed to stay completely calm while dealing with any number of traumatic experiences in the past, but somehow my emotional control only stretched so far where _he_ was concerned – a fact I was well aware of, and not ready to confront at the moment. Or any moment, really.

I tried to remember how to breathe: in-out, slowly, normally, like I wasn’t on the brink of falling to pieces. Because no one falls apart at the grave of someone they don’t know, and John was plenty smart enough to make that sort of connection. And no way was John going to find out who I really was. People would torture and kill for my real identity, not to mention those who would hurt the ones I cared about to hurt me, and I was not putting John in danger like that. Not with everything he’d already gone through.

A hand on my elbow, along with a concerned “Mary?” started to break through the numbness growing in my head. I closed my eyes, hoping to regain some semblance of composure.

“Mmm?”

“You alright?”

I turned away from the gravestone, old training coming back into play as I mimicked his military posture. “Fine. Just…humbled.” I cringed at the poor excuse, which he clearly wasn’t buying. Time for a tactical retreat to regroup. “I’ll give you some time, go wait by the gates.”

“You can stay if you like.” He sounded puzzled, but I could tell he meant it.

I shook my head. “No, really. I’m intruding. But please, take all the time you need.” I headed for the cemetery gates, trying to rush without looking like I was rushing. I could already feel tears starting to threaten, and I was determined not to let those floodgates open. No matter how far my control collapsed I drew the line at such an extreme weakness as crying; and if I was honest, _he_ would just see crying at his grave as a disappointment. Tiny drops of saline could never change things, after all. They’d never bring him back.

 

 

John was quiet on the cab ride home, but not in the subdued way he was while riding to the cemetery. It was a pensive silence, one that made me uncomfortable; John may not be a genius, but he’s certainly intelligent and capable of putting two and two together.

As soon as we reached the flat I locked myself in the bathroom. John took a minute paying the cabbie; I sat down on the toilet, listening as he came in and hesitated in the sitting room before making his way down the hall. Squeezing my eyes shut I willed him to continue to the bedroom. His footsteps sounded like they would carry on past me, but at the last minute paused outside the bathroom door. He knocked, two short taps.

“Mary?”

“I need a shower,” I replied. “It was a long day at work, I need –“ God, was I getting choked up again? I cleared my throat. “I need a shower.”

“Okay,” he sounded concerned, which made me feel horrible. This was supposed to be about him, I was supposed to be the support here, and I was the one going to pieces. “Can you keep the door unlocked, though? For me?”

I leaned over and started the water, then unlocked the door. “I – yeah. I did.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.” He walked away.

Steam was beginning to waft from behind the curtain, so I got in. The water was hot, almost too hot, but I just stood under the stream and let it wash over me. If some of the water running down my face was saltier than the rest, I didn’t have to acknowledge it and nobody else would ever know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come follow me on tumblr for behind-the-scenes stuff on my writing! hastabeclever.tumblr.com :)


	19. Chapter Eighteen

“So I’m just curious – you going to tell me what happened last night?”

I leaned against the door for balance, answering him distractedly as I finished buckling my shoes. “What d’you mean?”

“Who are you?”

I glanced up at John sharply. He was standing by the end of the bed, arms crossed over his chest, hair still damp from his shower. I suppressed a sigh at the determined glint in his eyes. I didn’t have time for a Q&A right now. “Mary Morstan, formerly a lieutenant with the RAMC. Currently late for work.” I tried to step around him to grab my purse from the foot of the bed, but he shifted so he was in my way. I scowled at him but he just stared stubbornly back at me.

“Who were you before that?”

Why did he have to choose today to be obstinate? “Can I get to my purse?”

“Not until you answer me.”

“What do you want me to tell you? Every identity I’ve ever had? Let me assure you, it would be time consuming and less than beneficial for your life expectancy.”

“So you admit Mary isn’t your real name.”

I rolled my eyes. “John, you’ve been suspicious of that for months. I’ve slipped up too many little times for you not to have noticed. I’m not used to living with someone who isn’t in the business, and this identity’s backstory was designed for short-term and was therefore horrifically transparent to begin with. You were just weren’t certain enough to say anything.”

“Then what is it?”

“Why? What difference does it make?”

“I want to know.”

“Well, too bad. You can’t. May I please have my purse?”

“Why not?”

“That rather defeats the purpose of an alias, doesn’t it?”

He took a different approach. “What did you mean, less than beneficial?”

Good God, the man was persistent. “I can’t do this now. I haven’t had a chance to sweep this flat for bugs in weeks – don’t frown at me like that, you do it too – I’m moving from late into very late, and it honestly won’t make a difference what or when I tell you, you’re still not getting any potentially dangerous information – so really, now I think about it, any information at all. Now please don’t make me incapacitate you just to reach my purse, because my patience is wearing treacherously thin and there are people who will testify that I would do it if I had to.”

He raised an eyebrow at me but shifted enough that I could lean around him.  He followed me as I stalked to the sitting room, standing quietly in the kitchen entryway while I rooted around for my keys.  “How did you know Sherlock?”

I flipped back the cushions on the sofa.  “I just had them last night,” I muttered.

Soft jingling drew my attention to John.  He was dangling the keys from his fingers, shaking them slightly to make noise.  I frowned at him.  “Really?”

“How’d you know him?”

I sighed.  “I can’t tell you.  Seriously, John.  I don’t have time for games.”  I held out my hand for the keys.

He dropped them into my palm.  “I’m not playing games, they were on the table.  I’m not in primary school.”

“Are you walking with me today?”

He shook his head and answered, thankfully accepting the subject change.  “No, the clinic phoned a few minutes ago that they don’t need me.  I thought I would stay home and get caught up on some reading.”

Something in his tone captured my attention.  I tilted my head at him, concerned.  “Are you alright?  Last night was a bit of a mess.”

He shrugged one shoulder.  “I will be.  I have to say, it went better than I thought it would.”

My eyebrows shot up to my hairline.  “Honestly?”

“Yeah.  Well, apart from you looking like you’d seen a ghost or something.  But it gave me something to do other than just think about him.”

“I would’ve told you if I’d known.  Not how we knew each other, I still can’t, but that we did.”

“Would you?”

I opened my mouth to protest that of course I would, but then I thought about it.  “Actually, if I’d known I probably wouldn’t be here.  So I guess no, I wouldn’t have, just because we wouldn’t be talking about it anyway.  We wouldn’t be talking at all.”

“Then I guess I’m glad you didn’t know.”  His mouth quirked in a small, sad smile.  

I started to smile back…and my phone vibrated in my pocket. “Shoot. Greg. They’re seriously going to fire me one of these days, Mycroft or no Mycroft.” I answered the call while grabbing my lunch from the fridge. “Sorry, sorry, I’m on my way.”

“Are you on the bus yet?”  He sounded harried.

“No.”

“Good.  We’ve got a scene the other end of town.  I’ll text you the address.”  

“Bring coffee?”

“The good stuff, it’s on your way.”

“Right.”  

John was seated at the table and watching me closely as I slipped the mobile into my purse.  I was about to wave and dash when I realised - he’d lived with _Sherlock_.  Successfully. For over a year. That took a specific type of person, one who probably didn’t just want to just sit home and read. I paused in the entryway to the kitchen, peering at him curiously.

“Ever been to a crime scene?”

“Plenty.”

“Miss it?”

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.  “I doubt I’d be welcomed back.  Scotland Yard and I didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“No?”

“I was arrested for assaulting Lestrade’s boss.”

I actually laughed out loud.  “That sounds like a story.  C’mon, I’ll need help carrying the drinks.”

He thought it over for a minute but eventually got hesitantly to his feet.  “Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?”

 

 

When we reached the address Lestrade had texted to me I ducked under the police tape with the ease of habit.  John hesitated behind me, shifting uneasily and watching the officers dashing around.  I rolled my eyes and lifted the tape for him.  “You’re holding coffee.  They’ll love you.”

“Yeah, don’t think coffee is going to help me much.”  He followed me anyway.  

I thought Greg’s eyes would pop out of his head when he saw who was tailing me onto the scene.  John greeted him by handing him a cup of coffee.  “Cheers.”

The astonished stare landed on me.  “How’d you manage this?”

I was about to explain that morning and the night before when the realisation hit me that Greg had to have known all along.  It almost hurt, how quickly my relaxed eyebrows slammed into a scowl.  “When, exactly, was someone going to tell me?”

Greg shook his head in bewilderment.  “Tell you?  Tell you what?”

“I took her to Sherlock’s grave last night,” John murmured softly.  “I assume that’s what she’s talking about.”

“You’re bloody right, it’s what I’m talking about.  I’ve been here six months and you couldn’t find a moment to mention that I was living with his former flatmate?”  

“I thought you knew!  Didn’t Mycroft -”

“It’s Mycroft.  He knew I wouldn’t do this if there was a connection to Sherlock, of course he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Sorry, Mycroft’s involved?” John questioned.  I frowned at him in disapproval.  He rolled his eyes.  “Of course he is.”

I turned back to Lestrade.  “He told you not to say anything, didn’t he?”

“Look-”

“No, he did.  I know you’ve been in contact, he’s been orchestrating this whole thing since before I got here.  What kind of game is he playing?”

“It’s Mycroft Holmes, how the hell should I know what goes on in his head?”

I narrowed my eyes at him but didn’t argue.  It wasn’t worth it for what little information Greg may or may not have.  I’d just have to take it up with the man himself at a later date.  

The case itself was relatively straightforward, and I was there more in an actual assistant capacity than for my observational skills. John followed us quietly around, looking vaguely uncomfortable but not choosing to leave, which I found somewhat encouraging. Everything was going smoothly right up until Greg’s new sergeant – Sadie? Sally? – showed up with the paperwork he’d sent her to retrieve before we got there. He and John were chatting softly while I consulted with the forensics tech when her irritated voice rang across the decedent’s bedroom.

“You’ve got some nerve, showing up here.”

Lestrade, John and I all stared at her where she glowered in the doorway, her gaze levelled distrustfully at John. Lestrade’s voice growled out a low warning. “Donovan.”

I quickly scanned the woman standing cross-armed in the room’s entryway. Her posture was stiff and uncomfortable: defensive, rather than angry. Well-hidden guilt creased the corners of her eyes and made her fingers tap anxiously against her arms. Her gaze was locked on John in an attempt to make herself appear simply irritated, but the way she angled away from the room spoke volumes of her discomfort at discovering him there.

John stiffened, fists starting to clench at his sides. A frankly terrifying smile planted itself on his face. “Sergeant Donovan. A pleasure, as always.”

Her eyes skittered uneasily to Lestrade. “How could you let him back here? After everything he did.”

John’s arms crossed defensively across his chest, the menacing grin fading into that blank mask he so often wore. “Everything _I_ did. _I’m_ not the one who drove a man to suicide, _sergeant_.”

I frowned, confused by the sudden turn. I now remembered various references to his friend’s suicide – part of the reason I never even considered the possibility he was connected to Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes didn’t commit suicide, and certainly not by jumping off a roof; it just wouldn’t happen. Maybe, several years ago, an overdose would have been probable, but Mycroft had assured me of his sobriety since his release from rehab. If he was going to die, it would be at the hand of a villain in the midst of a chase. Certainly not because of a few choice insults thrown his way by a detective offended at his intrusion on her crime scenes.

By the time I surfaced from my puzzled thoughts, Donovan was sputtering and flustered and John looked about ready to punch her. I shot a quick look at Greg, who nodded at me, and I grabbed John’s hand from where it was clenching and unclenching at his side. “C’mon, let’s go. They don’t need me anymore,” I murmured in his ear.

He nodded curtly at me, shooting Donovan another glare before storming out of the room. I followed closely behind him.

“You didn’t tell me she was still working with him,” he muttered once we cleared the tape.

“I didn’t realise she was involved,” I replied. “She just returned to the team a couple weeks ago. Some sort of inquiry, I guess.”

“Of her?”

I stopped up short, grabbing his elbow as he passed and forcing him to face me. “I don’t know. What happened?”

He refused to make eye contact, staring resolutely over my shoulder instead of acknowledging me at all.  I scowled, irritated by his silence.  “I have a right to know, and since nobody else will tell me anything that leaves you.”

“Ask Greg.”

“As much as he denies it, Greg has been under Mycroft’s thumb since the first time he allowed Sherlock onto a crime scene.  It’s through no fault of his own, Mycroft has that effect on people. However, since I already know Myc won’t tell me anything, that means Greg won’t tell me anything either.”  

His eyes finally met mine, the anger slowly being replaced by amused astonishment.  “Mike?”

“Myc.  M-Y-C.  Short for Mycroft.  Who is really not the subject of conversation here.”

“And you’re not - I dunno - incarcerated for calling him that?”

“I think I’m one of two who gets away with it.”  

“Let me guess - his mother’s the other?”

The corner of my mouth quirked into a smile.  “Very good.”

His head tilted slightly.  “So what does that make you?”

And the smile was gone.  I crossed my arms, hoping he’d take the hint and leave the topic alone.  “Why are we back to this again?”

“Because I’m curious.  We live together, I’d at least like to know your name.”

He had a point, much as I disliked it. Out of habit I paused and looked around, reaching for and squeezing his hand in assurance – though for him or me, it was difficult to say. I sighed. "Give me a moment." When he nodded, I pulled my mobile from my pocket and reached for Myc's speed-dial. The smooth, professional tones of his assistant answered. "Mr Holmes is unavailable at the moment. Is this an emergency?"

"I need a car and a secure location for a few hours."

"Does Mr Holmes need to be notified of a problem?"

"No."

"The vehicle is on its way."

I nodded and ended the call. His fingers reached for mine once more. "What's going on?"

"I'm just being overly cautious. We're going to a safe house for a few hours, just so I know we'll be somewhere secure. I'll tell you what I can - which is very little, mind you. Don't expect any grand reveals. And in return I'd like to hear about what happened to Sherlock. I think I deserve that much."

His hand tightened around my palm in a reassuring grip. "Alright. I can handle that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr! I've started posting rough drafts for this story, and I'm hoping to get some illustrations and other fun stuff up soon :) My url is hastabeclever.tumblr.com, or you can search for Becca_Marie.  
> Please feel free to leave comments/questions/whatever you want. I love to hear from you!


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, lots of background! Trigger warnings for discussion of drug abuse and overdose - it's not the whole chapter, but does come up there in the middle for a bit.

The safe house Myc's car took us to wasn't much, more of a room than a house. It would usually be used as a location for agents to transition from home to field or vice versa and was designed for only a few hours of use, so it was perfect for my purposes. The cement walls and sparse furnishings weren't exactly inviting, but the desk and computer might be useful and the sofa was a welcoming place for us to sit on while we talked.

Less welcoming was the black car sitting in front of the building when ours pulled up. I rolled my eyes and got out, shutting the door perhaps a little too firmly behind me. "I told her you didn't need to be informed."

"You said there was no problem about which to notify me in an urgent manner. That does not mean I won't be fed the information upon convenience." Mycroft pushed away from where he was leaning against his vehicle. "What exactly are you intending?"

"What's John's security clearance?"

"Why?"

I scowled. "You know why, stop playing. Thanks for nothing, by the way. I really appreciate the whole heads-up about the John-Sherlock thing. It was great to know ahead of time that when I was being brought to a grave, it would be his."

"I was aware of your hesitance to become involved in anything concerning -"

"Cut the crap, Myc. Seriously."

"Language," he tsked. "In response to your query, Dr Watson is cleared for beta-level information."

"Concerning even the agency?"

"Concerning everything."

I looked over at where John was standing patiently by our car, surprised by the information. Beta was pretty much everything except the serious international stuff that only alpha-levels were allowed to access. I wasn't even sure Mycroft had full alpha clearance for agency information. "Why?"

"A few of the cases he and Sherlock became involved in contained some... sensitive material. It was a necessary measure." He paused briefly, tapping his umbrella against the ground. "How much are you planning to tell him?"

"I don't know. Not as much as he wants to know, I'm sure."

"Please exercise some discretion. I know your relationship with him has -"

"Okay, you can stop now," I interrupted, holding a hand in his face. "I'll be careful. Promise."

"Good." He climbed into the waiting car. I gestured John over as both of the shiny onyx vehicles pulled away from the concrete box we were going to spend the next few hours inhabiting.

He gave the building a thorough once-over before following me inside. "Is this really necessary?"

I nodded, making my way to the computer and logging in just so it was available if I needed it. "I really shouldn't be telling you any of this to begin with, since you're not affiliated with the agency in any way, but Myc said your clearance is high enough for it to not be an issue."

"Uh-huh." He settled himself on the sofa.

Awkward silence descended, both of us knowing the conversation that needed to happen but neither one wanting to broach the subject. I wavered uncertainly on my feet before settling tentatively beside him on the sofa. “So.”

“So. Mary?”

“Is the only name you can know me by. Sorry.”

“He knew you by another.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” I shifted uncomfortably. “A long time ago.”

“How’d you know him?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What can you tell me?”

I laced my fingers together, tapping them against the backs of my hands while I debated, my eyes following the random movements rather than watching John. The silence grew for a moment, waiting for me to make up my mind.

My voice was quiet when I finally began speaking. “I can tell you we used to live together.”

“Really?” he interrupted incredulously. “Like – _together?”_

I laughed quietly, amused at both the amazement in his voice and the absurdity of the idea. “No. _God_ no. We knew each other growing up, and he’s the one who took me in after I left Andrew. Basically kidnapped me from hospital and informed me I was now sharing a flat with him. It was great for a while; he got clean, Lestrade started giving him cases again… real cases, not just him figuring stuff out from the sidelines and newspaper articles. We didn’t speak much while I was living with Andrew, and I’d forgotten how much fun he could be in his own way. Seeing him happy like that again…” I trailed off with a wistful smile.

“What happened?”

I sighed quietly, looking up at him. “I got better. I started working again, travelling… leaving him alone. For whatever reason, he started back on the drugs. He never used when I was home, but eventually I’d find clues when I returned from a case. After a while he stopped trying to hide it from me. He knew I’d never go to Mycroft.”

I could clearly read disapproval in John’s frown. “Why wouldn’t you?”

I shrugged. “He needed someone on his side? I don’t know. I think I was afraid of losing him. It was always the two of us against everyone else; I wanted it to stay that way. So I convinced myself he was a grown man who could make his own decisions.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Who says I changed my mind?”

He crossed his arms, watching me closely. “Well, there has to be a reason you stopped speaking to each other. He never mentioned you once in the eighteen months we lived together.”

My gaze went back to my hands, visions of a pale, sweaty face flashing through my mind. I blinked them away and pushed on. “He overdosed. Twice.”

“Christ.”

“The first time I’m pretty sure was an accident. He used a new dealer or something, so the solution was stronger than he anticipated. I had some basic medical training, enough to provide him the help he needed. It wasn’t that bad of an overdose. His body just needed to work through it. I did tell Mycroft about it, once I got Sherlock to wake up. He didn’t speak to me for a week once he realised I was the reason Myc knew. And Myc was upset that I still wouldn’t send him to rehab.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I was twenty years old and scared of alienating the only person who understood me!”

“So you would have let him die to keep his friendship?”

“You think I haven’t thought about that? I was a kid!”

John stood abruptly and began pacing, arms stiff at his sides. I watched him apprehensively, unsure whether to continue or not. Eventually he came to a stop, turning slowly to face me. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“No. Doesn’t mean it’s not the truth. Trust me, I’ve already been over all the worst-case scenarios.” I puffed out a heavy exhale. “Anyway, I did draw the line at the second one. It was worse – much worse.” I didn’t mean to lace my words with meaning, but it happened anyway.

The way John’s legs buckled, I wasn’t sure he’d make it back to the sofa. My arms reached automatically to stabilise him, but he managed to sit down before he fell. “You okay?”

“He tried to kill himself?”

“I don’t know,” I murmured, choosing not to mention that he had apparently succeeded less than five years later. John’s eyes locked on mine, demanding an explanation. Hesitantly I obliged. “He never admitted to it, but…well, he was a chemist. And he’d been using for a while at that point. There was no reason for him to miscalculate that badly. I wasn’t supposed to be home for another week, but we finished early. I found him when I got back to the flat. He had one seizure on the way to hospital, and it took them a while to get him stabilised.   I spent that night in a hospital waiting room, then arranged for him to go to rehab with Myc the next day while Sherlock was still too out of it to notice anything.”

“Bet he loved that.”

I snorted, waiting a moment before resuming the story. “I made myself scarce for a while, until he was released and sent back home with the order to pack a small bag. He moaned and groaned and lazed about the flat refusing to do anything. Somehow he still thought I was on his side. He threw an absolute tantrum when he realised I was packing his bag for him.”

A sad little chuckle made its way from John’s mouth. “Ah yes, stroppy Sherlock.”

The side of my mouth quirked in response. “Good to know he didn’t change much.”

“What happened next?”

“World War Three.” He snorted a little and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head, chuckling softly at the sheer ridiculousness of my memories. “No, I’m serious. Two hot-tempered, equally intelligent individuals on opposite sides of an argument – it wasn’t a good mixture.”

“I’d say so.”

“Anyway, it ended with me telling him I didn’t want to see him again until he was clean, and him retorting he never wanted to see me again ever. Apparently trying to save him from himself was treason of the worst sort.” I frowned. I’d never meant for those heated statements to remain truth. “Less than a week later I completed special training and was assigned to a project in America. I never saw him again.”

He was quiet for a while, brow creased in thought, hands clasped and elbows on his knees. I could see his expressive face settle into determination when he finally decided on a question. “Special training for what?”

“Work.”

He laughed bitterly. “No, that’s not an answer.”

“John, please.”

“Why can’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because I don’t want to put you in danger!” Damn. That would invite questions.

His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed. “I don’t follow.”

“Good.”

“No, not good.” A blunt finger stabbed through the air towards my chest. “Explain. Now.”

I crossed my arms. “We’re not in Helmand anymore, John. You can’t just order me to do something and expect me to do it.”

He made that face, the one where his eyes got all round and his mouth thinned; the one usually directed at a new recruit who got a little too caught up in the romanticism of being a soldier and needed to be brought down a few notches. It was much less amusing when it was focussed in my direction. I scowled back at him. “Don’t make that face at me. And for your information, if we’d been serving as Americans I would have seriously out-ranked you. So don’t push me on the military ranking front.”

“I think I deserve to know if my life is in danger.”

“It’s only in danger if you have information about me.”

“Which is an assumption that will be made whether I do or not, since we’re living together.”

I rolled my eyes and slumped back against the thin cushions of the sofa. Unfortunately, he did have a point - one I'd been increasingly aware of, especially since we had taken our relationship past casual.

As if he could tell I was at the tipping point, he reached out to take my hand. We sat quietly like that for a while, hands intertwined with no words spoken. Then I sighed heavily, trying to prepare myself. “You know it has nothing to do with trust, right? I really do trust you. I just don’t want to put you in a precarious position.”

“It wouldn’t be anything new.”

“I know.”

He took a moment to process that, staring off into space while he thought. When he did speak, his voice was quiet. “You don’t have to protect me.”

“I protect people. That’s what I do.”

“Inherently, or that’s your job?”

“Yes.”

He looked over at me. “Is that all I’m getting?”

“If I said yes would you let it go?”

He sighed and looked down at our interlaced fingers. “Probably. Though it does seem to defeat the point of this place.”

I extracted my hand from his, standing to pace nervously before perching on the arm of the sofa. “I am – well, was – a field operative. Secret agent, spy, whatever you want to call it. After I was hurt in an explosion I was stuck in a field office for a while, then was placed back in the field as a surveillance and technology agent.”

“Your knee.”

“Yes.”

“Who do you work for?”

“It’s an international security agency. I don’t have a citizenship anymore. London is my ‘home base,’ essentially, but I’m not an English citizen. We’re all floaters. If you look for my real identity, she died in a car accident at the age of eighteen.”

“And what do you do?”

“Depends on the assignment. Most recently I was part of the team working on a multi-national crime syndicate based out of the U.K., but with branches all over Europe and North America.”

“What really brought you back to London? Are you still working?”

“Not for the agency. Mycroft brought me in on personal assignment.”

He could sense I wasn’t going to elaborate on that anymore; I could see his frustration, but at least he didn’t press the subject. In the end he decided on “Is it dangerous?”

I laughed softly. “Mycroft’s assignment? Definitely not.”

From there the conversation moved to what he and Sherlock had done together. Some things made me laugh, some made me bite my lip in worry, but it was good to hear about what he had been doing after so long with nothing. However, it was the end of the serial bomber story that really caught my attention. “Hold on. _Who_ took you hostage?”

His lips thinned in anger, fists clenching in his lap. “James Moriarty,” he spat.

It took all my self-control not to respond – though in all honesty, I wasn’t sure what that response would have been. The idea of either one of them involved with that _spider_ made bile rise in my throat.

And then the connection clicked – the papers I’d been looking at when I got Mycroft’s call all those months ago. “John…did Sherlock really commit suicide?”

His gaze landed resolutely on the opposite wall. “Yes.”

“You’re sure.”

“I was there.”

My eyes snapped up from where they’d been taking in the minute details of my fingernails, immediately analysing his posture and voice. “You watched.”

“He phoned me. Asked me to.”

“I’m sorry to ask this, really I am, but…can you tell me everything?”

It took some time, with many pauses for both our sakes, but eventually he explained the whole thing, from the Reichenbach case all the way to searching desperately for a pulse from the bloodied body on the pavement. During the whole story things started falling into place, mysteries the agency had assigned me to look into that hadn’t made any sense before.

That file, the one I’d been flipping through when Rose came to my bedroom door with Mycroft on the other end of the phone – it was a report on the death of James Moriarty. Confirmed. Definite. Reported by an anonymous independent agent and retrieved from the roof of St. Bartholomew’s hospital. The exact same hospital Sherlock had jumped from. The timeline matched up, they would have died on the same day. So, same day and same location? Could it be coincidence? The odds were – well frankly, astronomical. And John had confirmed involvement with Moriarty prior to the Reichenbach fiasco. Was it possible…?

I needed to do some research, without John hanging around. The computer screen flickered enticingly on the desk, but as long as John was with me accessing agency files was not an option. I’d have to come back later – something I was definitely planning on doing the soonest chance I got.


	21. Chapter Twenty

Arizona and New Mexico were done. No sign of the man he was following; he still hadn’t surfaced after disappearing shortly before the detour to London. Rose had received orders to move on to the Nevada branch and, having hit a standstill himself, it made sense to follow her there. She had proven herself relatively... bearable, if nothing else. And couples tended to attract less attention than a single man. Particularly somewhere like Las Vegas.

Two hours into the silent, tedious drive she attempted conversation. "How long have you worked with the agency?”

“How is that important?” he grumbled.

“It’s not, really. We’ve just been working together for months and I still feel like I hardly know you."

"Isn't that the point?" He didn't even look up from the files in his lap, hoping that would discourage further questioning.

"I find that I work better with people if I understand them. Not your life story, but at least a little background."

"I don't." This photograph was fabricated. Why was there a fake in the file?

"Okay, so I won't tell you about me."

"You don't have to," he retorted without focus. He lifted the photo to his face so he could examine it more closely.

"What does that mean?"

He ignored her, flipping to the next picture. It was also falsified - the colouration of the shadows was off. "Where did you get these?"

"Hmm?"

"This file," he explained impatiently.

"Oh. My mailbox for work."

"Stop the car. Now."

"We're in the middle of the desert, I'm not-"

"Now."

She pulled to the side of the road, grousing loudly. "Why am I doing this?"

He waved the file at her. "This isn't an actual file. I'd rather not drive into an ambush without being prepared."

"Can't be, I looked it over myself. It has the agency's mark and everything. Plus that mailbox is secure."

"Obviously not."

"Give it." She snatched the file from his hands. "If we've been compromised I need to let the agency know."

"How? You don't know how much of your communications are at risk."

She swore softly. "Now what?"

"We continue to Las Vegas."

She raised an eyebrow at him, her weight shifting subtly in the driver's seat as she reached for the weapon concealed underneath. He rolled his eyes.

"No, I'm not the one who planted the file, nor do I pose any direct threat to you. If I was, why would I point out the faked photos? If we know there is a chance of attack we can be prepared. In the meantime, they will not be alerted to our awareness of their tampering."

She continued to eye him suspiciously. "How d'you know it's faked?"

It had been far too long since he'd had an audience. The frailty of genius indeed... "The shadows, for one, are entirely the wrong shade for the lighting. That shade of grey would be created by a natural light, certainly not the yellow shade of artificial lighting we see here. Then of course is the angle of the wardrobe in relation to our hypothetical photographer - basic physics, two solid objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time..." Why was she laughing? He frowned. That reaction was new.

"Sorry," she finally chuckled. "Just – oh my God, sorry – how many of you are there?"

He blinked at her in mild confusion. "Genetics would indicate only the one.” What was she babbling about now?

"No, Vi used to do the exact same thing where she'd come up with some crazy idea based off of a few details. Thing was, she was always right. Why do you think she was the youngest person to make field agent?"

She used his methods in the field? She’d never told him that.  

"The government liaison who reassigned her did it too. I could see it in his eyes when he showed up at our apartment. Do they teach it in schools over there or something?"

"No, as far as I am aware we are the only three with this particular skill."

"So you do know them?"

Damn. People love to contradict you - his own trick used against him. He was getting sloppy. He settled back into the passenger seat, aware his silence was more revealing than anything he could say but unwilling to risk telling her anything else. Obviously he'd underestimated her. A bit.

She smirked at him. "I could keep going. I've got full interrogation training."

"Did Violet teach you that too?"

She shrugged, ignoring his hostile tone. "Some. They offer an official course during basic training for the agency, but she embellished on it. Should I start driving again or are we staying on the side of the road for the rest of the afternoon?"

He flicked his fingers at her to signal she should resume driving, more interested in their new topic of conversation. "She was the information person on your team."

"It's why she was able to keep working after her surgery. She could operate remotely from a secure location while I did the legwork."

"Surgery?" Nobody told him about any surgery. Mycroft was supposed to keep him updated on these things. Fat lot of good he was. What else had happened to her that he'd never heard about?

"Yeah, she had to have all sorts of joint repair done after the explosion."

"Explain."

Rose raised her eyebrows at him, completely unphased by the dangerous tone of his voice. "Explain what, exactly? A room went boom. That's the definition of explosion."

He rolled his eyes. "What exploded? When was said explosion? Where were you, her protector, at the time of said explosion?"

She pulled the car back out onto the deserted road. "I'm not her bodyguard - nor yours, for that matter. Just to clear things up. Anyway, why should I tell you anything?"

He reached over to retrieve the files from her lap. "Because I probably just saved your life. Again, I might add. I believe some trust is in order."

"A story for a story then. Seems fair. And it will pass the time."

Ah, reciprocity. Basic, predictable human nature, and not worth a spoken response. He waved a lazy hand to signify acceptance of her terms.

"I'm curious - are you always so charming or is it just for me?"

"Sarcasm," he muttered, pulling another photograph out to examine.

"No, really?" She snorted at him. "Anyway, the explosion. Um...Chicago, I think. It was supposed to be surveillance only but then we received notification of threats made to a local community centre. It was related to the parameters of our mission so the agency sent us in to take a look with her as the lead. We didn't know the exact nature of the danger until we did a sweep and found a low-level explosive in the basement with fifteen minutes on the timer. It wasn't enough to bring the whole building down, but we didn't want to take any chances so we started a full evac. We managed to get everyone out with almost seven minutes left, so Vi insisted on doing a final sweep since there was still time. I was distracted with keeping children happy and didn't realize what she was doing until she was already back inside. All I know after that is what she's told me: she checked the timer and there were five and a half minutes, she entered the neighbouring room and it detonated maybe a minute later. The timing was deliberate, but we don't know if it's 'cause the building was empty or if she was the target."

"And her injuries?"

"Relatively light, considering everything. She was trapped under a lot of rubble and we did some damage to her hips trying to get her out. Moderate concussion, a number of contusions, scrapes, etcetera. The biggest issue was her knee. Her left patella was hit by concrete or something and shattered."

"How is her mobility now?"

“Passable, but she’ll never work as an active operative again.”

He opened his mouth to ask another question, but she cut him off before any words could come out.

"Nuh-uh, that wasn't the deal. My turn."

It wasn't worth the breath to argue with her. Wordlessly he nodded consent, extracting the case report from the file to look for inconsistencies while he answered her questions. It was going to be a long drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr: hastabeclever.tumblr.com :)


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I'm late with this! The next couple weeks might be a little weird in terms of posting schedule, since I've got finals coming up, but I'll try to still update weekly if I can.  
> Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

"...and then the mother proceeded to explain to me exactly how her child's _mosquito bite_ was actually chicken pox!"

I chuckled at his exaggerated indignation. "That's awful. I really shouldn't laugh."

He snickered, the sound coming through the phone as white noise. "No, you shouldn't. Please continue."

I laughed again. It had been an easy day for both of us (hypochondriac mothers aside), and we were both in good spirits.

A shadow fell over my desk. I glanced up to see Greg looming over me, a stack of files in his arms. "Mary."

"John, hang on." I tucked the mobile against my neck. "Yes?"

"What are you still doing here?"

"John had to wait for some lab results for a patient, so he's home late today. I figured I’d stay and wait for you."

"I'm done. Go home, it's past late."

I eyed his stack of papers. "What are you doing with those?"

"Putting them in the stacks, then going home. Like you should."

I nodded and lifted the phone back to my ear. "I'm leaving. You want me to grab something for dinner?" Out of my peripheral vision I saw Greg nod in satisfaction and walk away.

"I'll do it. Don't know how long this is gonna take, since the equipment's been funny lately."

"Text me when you're leaving the clinic, yeah?"

"Yeah. Chinese?"

"Sweet and sour."

"Sweet and sour, got it. See you soon."

 

 

When I turned onto our street and recognised the black car idling in front of our building, the groan was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything else. The driver must have been watching for me, because he got out and stood at rest before I even finished rolling my eyes.

“Let me guess - he let himself in.”

“Yes, ma'am."

I nodded slowly, long since resigned to a disturbing lack of privacy. “D’you know what he wants?”

“No ma'am."

“Right. Thanks.” I tucked my keys back into my purse with a sigh; if the driver was out front then he was making no attempts to be subtle - the door would be open.

When I walked in Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, sipping tea from a cup I knew didn’t come from our kitchen. I dropped my purse in the kitchen with a slight huff. “Please come in, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything? Tea, maybe? I do hope our humble mugs are worthy of your presence.”

“You’re late. You were expected home an hour ago.”

I dragged a kitchen chair into the living room and plopped into it. “Wanted to stay and make sure Lestrade didn’t need anything. The guy who usually stays late had to bail today.”

“Your dedication to the Inspector is touching.”

“Do you need something? Why are you here?”

“You are still in contact with your partner in the States, am I correct?”

I blinked, startled. Of all the things I thought he was here about, the agency certainly wasn’t one of them. “Yeah…?”

“She took an unscheduled trip to Las Vegas last week and although she checked in with her handler at the usual time, there was no explanation for the detour. He has asked me to see if you had any insight into this behaviour.”

I frowned. “We were just texting a few nights ago. The trip to Vegas was official, she received a file in her box. It was weird, since we took care of Vegas together ages ago, but we just assumed something else had been uncovered.”

“Her handler assured me she was not sent to Vegas by the agency.”

I fiddled with the hem of my shirt, thinking. “If she got a bogus file and knows it’s not legitimate, it would explain why she’s not saying anything. She wouldn’t know how much of her communication had been compromised.”

“Do you consider that a possibility?”

I shrugged. “The security on those boxes is strong, but nothing is entirely impenetrable. We’ve certainly been trained on proper protocol concerning an infiltrated mission.”

“Surveillance footage reveals a man with her at the Venetian hotel and casino. Do you know anything about him?”

“Probably the independent she's been working with.”

"The handler did not mention an independent agent."

"I don't think he was assigned to her, they just started working together because they have a common goal. Partnerships are allowed at our discretion as long as both members are authorised by the agency in some capacity."

“Identity?”

“The only name he gave her was James, but I have reason to believe the full alias is Logan James."

"Do you trust him?"

I leaned back in my seat, crossing my arms across my chest. "She seems to. That's good enough for me."

“You don’t think she’s being threatened by him?”

I rolled my eyes. “Myc, you saw us together. Do you really believe that we wouldn’t have ways of communicating a threat to each other?”

His head tilted in mild concession to my words. “Do let me know if more information arises, would you?”

I nodded. “Sure.” As he rose from the sofa, I directed one final question his way. “Did you actually see the security footage?”

“No. I have more important things to do than watch two people with no ties to me wander a casino for six hours.”

Swinging my legs up onto his abandoned cushion, I rested my head against the back of my wooden chair. “I assumed as much. I just thought I’d ask. I’ve never actually seen this James fellow.”

“Keep me updated,” he ordered as he swept from the flat.

John wandered in moments later, carting a large plastic bag of Chinese takeaway. “Was that Mycroft’s car I just saw?” he asked.

“Mmm,” I groaned. “Thank god he’s gone.”

He chuckled softly. “He seems to have that effect on people.”

The tempting scent of sweet and sour chicken permeated the air of the sitting room, drawing me from contemplation of the backsides of my eyelids. I planted a soft kiss on John’s cheek as I walked into the kitchen and was rewarded with a plate of food. “So tell me,” I mused, tapping a chopstick against my lower lip, “should I be worried about an impending chicken pox epidemic?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re not cute.”

“You love me anyways.”

A small grin twitched the corner of his mouth. “I suppose that’s true, isn’t it?”

We smiled at each other for a moment until I snorted into my chicken. “God, if Sherlock had heard that…”

“We’d tell him to mind his own bloody business,” John chuckled.

“I hope you have more luck with that than I ever did.”

“Not particularly. Still, worth a try.” He sucked a breath in through his teeth. “Well, now that the mood is successfully ruined… telly?”


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

I came home one sweltering day in July to find the sitting room of the flat piled with boxes. I set my purse on the kitchen table, eyeing the stacks of cardboard with apprehension. “John?”

His head appeared from behind one of the towers at about half his normal height. “Hey, you’re home.”

“Yeah.” I circled around to see him seated cross-legged on the floor in front of a half-empty box. “What’s all this?”

“Sherlock’s stuff from our flat. He left it all to me when he…” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. The furniture mostly stayed there, but this is all the other stuff. Mycroft had it boxed up and put in storage, but I think it’s time I went through it.”

I peered into the box in front of him. “Science equipment. That brings back memories. Did he still keep it on the kitchen table?”

He laughed, a sad little chuckle. “Yeah.”

“Drove me nuts, I wanted to throw it out a window sometimes!” I rifled through the box. “Do you mind if I help?”

“By all means.”

The box I lifted down ended up being full of books. Several of the titles were familiar from the Montague Street flat and before, but a few of them were new. I grinned nostalgically when I pulled out a collection of Poe I’d given him for his birthday when we were both young. He’d scoffed at the idea of fiction, but I’d walked in on him enthralled by its pages one too many times to really believe he didn’t like it.

Hours passed in mounds of flasks, books, and other miscellaneous items. It was completely dark by the time we managed to get them sorted. All of the science equipment ended up in boxes to donate, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with the microscope (another gift from me and Mycroft) or most of the books. John and I also decided to keep the electric kettle from their flat; his mother’s old stovetop was beautiful, but the loud, piercing whistle was inconvenient for a late-night cuppa.

I retreated to the kitchen to make tea in said new kettle while John tackled the last box, a small one labelled “mantle.” I didn’t think it would take very long – honestly, how much could you fit on a mantle – but the water boiled and tea steeped and John still hadn’t come in to tell me he was done. Cautiously I made my way back to the sitting area with a cup in each hand.

John was sitting on the sofa, head down and gaze directed at something white and polished on his lap. At first the couch arm obstructed my view, but as I drew closer I could make out the rounded cranium and black orbitals of a skull. My breath stuttered to a brief halt before I was able to force myself forward and feign calmness.

“Here,” I said softly, presenting John with a steaming mug of tea.

He took it silently. I sat down next to him and reached for the skull. He didn’t stop me.

“He named it Billy,” I murmured. “Which is strange, since it’s female.”

John looked at me, eyes sad but curious. “Did he ever tell you why?”

“No. His middle name was William, though. That might’ve been it.”

He let out a strangled laugh. “William, huh?”

I leaned in conspiratorially. “Mycroft’s is Sherrinford. If you ever want something to tease him about.”

This time his laughter was real. I grinned back, grateful to have gotten rid of the sudden sorrow, and set the skull down next to me. His arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me close. “I think we should keep Billy.”

“Of course.” I rested my head against his shoulder. “She’s been around for years. I honestly don’t even remember where she came from, but there’s no way I could get rid of her.”

“He told me he’d talk to her before he had me. It helped him think, he said.”

I hummed. “I’d believe that.”

“Did you have a Billy?”

I pulled away so I could look at him directly. “What do you mean?”

“You think like he did. I told you that you remind me of him sometimes. It’s that look you get in your eye. The ‘I’m thinking, don’t bother me’ look.”

“What does that have to do with the skull?”

“Who did you talk to when you needed to think out loud?”

I frowned, considering. “Lo. Or my team members, if I was in the field.”

“What was that first one? A stuffed animal or something?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. Sherlock.”

“You called him Lo.” He looked like he couldn’t believe anyone would use anything but Sherlock – though really, after the Myc revelation he shouldn’t have been so surprised.

“I couldn’t very well call him ‘Lock, could I? And Sherl would’ve just been stupid.” I grinned.

He chuckled. “God, Sherl? That’s awful.”

“He dated a girl once who called him that. I thought I would vomit every time she came to the flat.”

“Sherlock. Dated a girl.”

“Oh yeah. It lasted a couple months, actually. Right up until he didn’t need her anymore and told her outright that he was really only using her to get to her brother, who was the prime suspect in a smuggling case.”

“Now _that_ makes more sense,” he smirked.

I smiled at the memory. “Unfortunately I was assigned to a case in Dublin the weekend he broke it to her. I didn’t get to see the reveal.”

“What happened?”

“He refused to tell me, but I had fun treating his black eye,” I snickered. “Needless to say, it didn’t go as planned.”

He sighed lightly, still laughing, and took a sip of his tea, grimacing once the lukewarm liquid touched his lips. “Ugh.”

I laughed, reaching for his mug and planting a kiss on his cheek at the same time. “Yeah, mine’s cold too. What should we do for dinner?”

 

 

“Morstan, do you have those files for me?” DI Carter’s gruff tones made me roll my eyes. I’d told him fifteen minutes ago that the cases he’d asked me to retrieve from the archives were in his office.

“On your desk, sir,” I repeated (much more patiently than I felt the situation deserved). “Anything else I can do for you?”

“I’ll let you know,” he grumbled. I sighed in relief. A run of truly basic cases meant it was one of those rare weeks when I was consistently in the office, and the other homicide inspectors were taking full advantage of having me around. Normally I didn’t mind actually doing my job, but if Jones sent me on one more coffee run to his favourite shop two streets away (instead of the perfectly good Starbucks just around the corner) I was going to be providing the yard a truly fascinating murder indeed.

Ten minutes later yet another shadow fell over my desk. I suppressed a groan, flicking my eyes up to see who needed me this time. Lestrade chuckled lightly at the polite mask I’d forced onto my face.

“That bad?” he asked.

I relaxed and rolled my eyes. “You’ve no idea. What’s up?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Yeah, get in line.” I shifted a stack of papers to make room for whatever he might give me. “Please tell me it doesn’t involve a coffee shop.”

“It’s about John, actually. I’d like to invite him to consult on this.” He placed a photograph in front of me.

I skimmed over it, taking in all the little details I could glean from a picture. “Homicide, cause of death is a gunshot wound to the head. Large calibre. Execution style. Victim is early forties, career military, Army going by that bit of tattoo – above captain, but not by much. At a guess I’d say Major, but I try not to do that too often.” Loyal husband, two kids he doesn’t see as often as he’d like – probably irrelevant to the case. I looked up at Greg. “What do you need John for?”

A ballistics report landed on top of the photo. I whistled. “That’s a serious weapon. You want John because of his military experience?”

“Figure he may know something our team would miss, since we’re not as experienced dealing with wounds from this class of weaponry. Thought it would be better if you asked him.”

I nodded. “I’ll see if he’s interested.” John hadn’t come to any scenes since the argument with Donovan, but it was definitely worth asking. “Body’s at Bart’s morgue already, yeah?”

“Yup. Text me tonight if he’s up for it, we can meet there tomorrow morning.”

“Morstan!”

I sighed. “That’s Carter again. I’d better see what he needs.”

Greg grinned at me sympathetically. “Good luck!”

 

 

When we arrived at Bart’s the next day, John paused and visibly steeled himself. I took his hand, trying to provide support. “You okay?”

He nodded slowly. “He was right up there.” He pointed to the top of the pathology building. “I was there.” His finger moved to the pavement behind the ambulance station. “And then he was…”

I grabbed the pointing hand, halting it in its path to the kerb below the pathology building. “Let’s go inside.”

“You deserve to know.”

“I already made you relive it once. I’m not going to make you do it again.”

He nodded once, sharply. “Right. Yes. You want coffee?”

I started walking towards the entrance. “Sure. I need to check in with Greg. Meet me in the mortuary?”

“Mhmm.”

Greg wasn’t there yet, but the attending pathologist was standing in the doorway waiting for us. I nodded politely in greeting. “Doctor Hooper.”

“Just Molly,” she chirped. We’d met briefly before when I was helping Greg with a case, but I didn’t know her that well since she started working with the Yard after I left for America, long after I worked cases with Sherlock. “Mary, right?”

I nodded and smiled. “Yep.”

She smiled back. “Do you want to take a look, or should we wait?”

“If you don’t mind,” I said. “Our specialist should be here in a few minutes, but I’d like to see it myself first.”

“Yeah, of course.”

She led me into the room where she had the body laid out. “Here he is,” she announced, reaching for the paperwork hanging from the end of the table. “I don’t know how much you know – oh. This is the wrong clipboard.” She flipped to the second page. “Yeah, this isn’t right. I’ll just run and grab his, okay?”

I hummed acknowledgement, already fascinated by the wound on the victim’s forehead. I barely registered when John entered moments later, a cardboard cup in each hand. He chuckled lightly. “There’s something I didn’t think I’d see again. All you’re missing is the magnifying glass.”

I stood, rolling my eyes at him. “Yeah, alright. So I picked up some of his habits.” I reached for one of the cups. “Is it sludge or water today?”

“Sludge.”

I took a sip and made a face. “Ugh. Definitely sludge.”

“This is the guy, then?”

“Yep.”

He leaned over the body. “Is there a ballistics report I can look at?”

“It’s right here in his file.” The pathologist’s voice came from the doorway connecting the adjoining room, startling both of us into standing and spinning to face her. Her expressive face widened when she saw who had joined me. “John!”

“Molly, hi.” He shifted a little uncomfortably. “How – how’ve you been?”

Her hands toyed anxiously with the metal clasp on the clipboard in her hands. “Great! Well, not _great_ obviously, I mean – but okay, I guess…you?”

While John responded politely, I narrowed my eyes in confusion at her change in mannerisms. She wasn’t lying, exactly, but there was something uneasy about the way she oriented herself around John. The first thought I had was that they’d dated, but that hypothesis was quickly discarded. She wasn’t awkward, like they were exes… the closest I could come up with was that she was guilty about something. “You two know each other?” I asked, trying to initiate a conversation. More data meant more reliable results.

Unfortunately, Greg chose that time to stroll into the room. “Sorry I’m late. You’d not believe the traffic.” He glanced between John and Molly, clearly sensing the underlying tension in the room. He grimaced. “Right. Sorry about – this. I should’ve…” He cleared his throat. “John. Thanks for coming.”

“Oh, yeah. My pleasure.”

Greg gestured to the body. “Shall we?”

Once we started working the uneasiness dissipated, but there was something about the pathologist I couldn’t put my finger on. However, John was able to give us a lead which led to a frenzied chase down London’s backstreets and ended with the guy not being our suspect anyway, and in all the commotion my concerns were tucked to the back of my mind, not to be revisited for months to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the skull actually is female. I'm in an allied health major, so I can explain how to tell if anyone is dying to know :) Also, fun fact: the skull they used in the pilot (which also appears in TGG) is male.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr: hastabeclever.tumblr.com :)


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, sorry! This one took forever to finish. Just to make things clear, it's written split POV. I sort of did this at the end of Fourteen, but this is back and forth the whole chapter instead of just switching at the end. I've tried to make it obvious where the divisions are, so hopefully it's not too confusing.
> 
> Enjoy! As always, I love to hear from you :)

“Logan! Long-time no see!” The red-headed barista grinned cheerfully when he walked into the Starbucks just off the Vegas strip. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

He forced an answering smile, slipping easily into Logan’s friendly American persona. “Yeah, it’s been a whole two days.” He winked – people liked that, for some reason. Sure enough, the barista blushed and giggled. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “She’s working today.”

“Ah, the breadwinner.” She smirked playfully. “Want your usual?”

“When do I ever order anything else?” He smiled again, handing over an agency-provided credit card. “Thanks, Jenny.”

“Anything for my favourite customer.”

“I’m flattered.”

“It’s just the hair,” she retorted cheerfully. “God, I love your hair.”

“Don’t let Rosie hear you,” he teased, running a hand self-consciously through the dyed coppery waves.

She laughed. “I’ll bring your drink to you when it’s ready.”

He walked over to his usual table in the café’s back corner, already digging in his (atrocious) shoulder bag for the secure laptop assigned to him for this mission. Within moments he had an internet chat started with Rose, who had gotten herself a position at the Haagen-Dazs in the Venetian. Today was a crucial day, since she was putting the last phase of their plan into place. If all went well, the noose would be drawn tightly around the high-level henchman who had drawn them there. He’d always suspected Vegas as a potential headquarters for the western part of the American branch, a suspicion that had been confirmed by the fact that he’d been led here. Clearly the chief thought he would have the advantage of being on a home turf. Well, today he would be proven wrong; nearly two months’ worth of work would end with the branch’s leaders gift wrapped and dropped anonymously for the Las Vegas police force, the henchman in the hands of the agency, and freedom for himself and Rose to finally leave this blasted city.

Of course, if this went pear-shaped then the two of them could end up in the hands of the gang they were hoping to ensnare. Or dead in a ditch. Neither of which was a particularly appealing option.  

**[9:00am]goldn.rose: business is slow today**

**[9:00am]Ljames: Good.**

**[9:07am]goldn.rose: not good, boss gets cranky**

**[9:09am]Ljames: Your job is not to keep your supervisor happy.**

**[9:12am]goldn.rose: …technically it is**

**[9:13am]Ljames: You take these jobs too seriously.**

**[9:20am]goldn.rose: i’m believable. this is why i’m the one who got a job and you’re the one doing computer stuff**

**[9:21am]Ljames: I can be perfectly believable when the need arises. I’m doing the “computer stuff” because you wouldn’t know Java script from an espresso bean.**

**[9:25am]goldn.rose: why do I put up with you?**

**[9:30am]Ljames: Is that rhetorical or would you actually like me to explain it for you?**

**[9:41am]goldn.rose: it was rhetorical, genius** **☺**

**[9:45am]Ljames: Emoticons. I am officially finished with this conversation. Let me know when you actually do something productive.**

**[9:53am]goldn.rose: spoilsport**

He minimised the chat window and checked briefly on the Venetian’s security network. After five weeks of routinely getting himself into their system, the process of hacking in didn’t even require active thought. Feed from the cameras streamed onto his laptop, with facial recognition parameters set to alert him to the appearance of specific gang members. Satisfied that nothing interesting was happening there, he buried himself in chasing other leads. He needed to know exactly where he was going next.

Hours flew by without him noticing, lost among the world of crime rings and shipping companies operating out of Boston. Every once in a while the video feed would beep, drawing his attention long enough for him to note who had caught the software’s notice. Nothing outside of typical routine ever registered, allowing him to remain engaged in his research.

It was well past noon when a strident siren issued from the laptop, turning many irritated heads in his direction. He rushed for the mute button while murmuring apologies to those around him.

“Miss an appointment?” Jenny smirked from the counter.

“Something like that.” He double-checked the footage, confirmed that the camera had indeed recognised the person he was waiting for, then fired a quick message to Rose.

**[1:48pm]Ljames:** **Chocolate in a bowl**

**[1:53pm]goldn.rose: anything on top?**

**[1:54pm]Ljames: negative**

Several tense minutes passed before he received her response, during which began packing up his things. Finally the chat beeped again.

**[2:07 pm]goldn.rose: confirmed and on the move**

**[2:08pm]Ljames: hold for arrival**

Without waiting for her response, he snapped the lid of the laptop shut, tucking it into his shoulder bag on his way out the door.

 

~~ ~~

 

“John, your phone’s ringing!” I eyed the mobile buzzing against the coffee table. “John!”

He poked his head out of the kitchen. “Can you get it? This’ll be done in a minute.”

“Sure.” I snagged it off the table. “Hello?”

“John _Hamish_ Watson,” someone slurred on the other end. “ _Johnny_. You di’nt phone yest’rday.”

A quick glance at the screen confirmed it was his sister. “Sorry, John isn’t available right now. Should I have him phone you later?”

“Who’re you?” she muttered at the same time that he called “Who is it?”

I walked to stand in the kitchen entryway. “It’s Harry.”

He stared at me blankly for a minute before his eyes grew wide in mild consternation. “Shit. Give it here.”

I handed him the phone. “Everything okay?”

“Who knows. Yesterday was the anniversary of her divorce, I promised to check up on her. Does she sound drunk?”

I nodded. He swore again and lifted the phone to his ear. “Harry?”

I went back to the sitting room and eagerly returned to my novel, partly to give him some privacy and partly out of a sense of self-preservation. In the middle of a conversation between John and a drunken Harry did not seem a good place to be.

 

~~ ~~

 

It took him longer than he would have liked to jog all the way to the Venetian, and then to navigate the crowds of gamblers and tourists in the casino before managing to make his way to the relatively more peaceful reconstruction of Venice in the shopping area of the hotel. The ice cream shop was further back into the warren of hallways, away from the unnaturally blue canal. He swept into the store, bag whipping around his waist with the inertia of his abrupt turn. One of the young women standing behind the counter smiled a thin greeting that quickly disappeared once she saw his serious face. “Logan?”

“Is Rose here?”

“She only had a five hour shift today. She timed out around two.”

“You haven’t seen her since then?”

“Nope. I’ve got no idea where she went. Eager to get there though, she flew out of here.”

“Did she leave anything here?”

“Nnnooooo…”

He growled in frustration and whirled out of the shop. His message had instructed her to stay where she was and wait for him. In the event of an emergency she should have left him a clue, a signal, something to let him know where to go. The plan hinged upon the one unpredictable member of the gang, which meant this phase was all about working together and planning as they went. Clearly she had something in mind or she would have waited for him. The question was, how did he play into it?

He frowned, irritated, and pulled out his phone to check the messaging app. Nothing. She was probably tracking their criminal. The man’s appearance at the Venetian meant he was engaging in trade today, but he could have gone one of three directions. There was no way to know where without delving into the surveillance, which would take too long. With a slight huff he sent her a location request through the app, then found a bench upon which to wait. Much as it irked him not to be directly involved, she would communicate when she could.

He’d been sitting there less than five minutes when an unfamiliar woman sat down beside him. Unwilling to deal with an insipid tourist, he shifted forwards in preparation of walking away – and paused when the muzzle of a pistol pressed into his side.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the woman murmured. “Just friendly advice.”

“This is a crowded area,” he responded. “Plenty of witnesses.”

“I’m not too worried about them.” The gun shifted around to push into his back, still artfully concealed by the scarf draped over the woman’s arm. “You, however… you’re the interesting one. We’ve been waiting for you.”

 

~~ ~~

 

“That… did not go well.” John slammed his mobile onto the coffee table and dropped heavily onto my outstretched feet. I wiggled them out from underneath him and plopped them onto his lap. He started massaging one distractedly, mind clearly still on the conversation with his sister.

“Does it ever?” I muttered.

He looked at me, still frowning, then grinned and laughed wryly. “Not really, no.”

I wriggled my toes in contentment. “Well, at least I got something out of it.”

“You got to hear me swear more than I have since you moved in with me?”

I snickered. “No, it wasn’t nearly as much as when you slammed your finger in the door.”

He chuckled and switched feet. “Well then?”

“I now know your middle name.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s a family name.”

“Hamish. I like it.”

“Mum’s father’s side of the family was Scottish, or so I’m led to believe.”

I teasingly put on a heavy Scottish brogue. “Ah yes, bonnie olde Scotland.”

“Oh, stop it.” He pushed my feet off his thighs. “Dinner is ready.”

 

~~ ~~

 

He stayed silent as he was led through a locked maintenance door into a keyless lift. The woman still holding a gun to his back _(mid-to-late thirties, born Italian but raised Irish, trained assassin, can’t learn anything else until a solid visual is established)_ pressed her thumb to a fingerprint recognition pad and slid an ID against the card scanner that replaced the usual keys for floors. The lift jolted to life, shuddering slowly downwards.

“And to whom must I extend thanks for such charming hospitality?”

The gun pushed harder against his thoracic vertebrae. “Shut it.”

“It’s all a bit cliché, isn’t it? The intimidating voice, the menacing gun, the secret lift? Dull.”

She backhanded the back of his skull. “I said, quiet. They said alive, they didn’t say comfortable.”

He rubbed his head, mulling over the much-softer-than-expected slap. Curiously his eyes flicked around the lift, landing on the camera in the top corner keeping watch over the proceedings. He raised an eyebrow but decided to keep his smart retort to himself for the time being.

The lift slid open and the gun jolted a little into his back, forcing him forward. He stepped out into a long, dark passageway, lit at regular intervals by bare bulbs in the walls. A camera was visible to his right, and another barely discernible a ways down the hall. He frowned. _Underground, but not a room or bunker. This leads somewhere._

A hulking guard waited at the entrance, and he jerked his head in a brief nod when they stepped out. The woman didn’t acknowledge the man. A low chuckle rumbled in her throat while she examined her hostage. “You thought you had us all figured out, didn’t you?”

“I had suspicions,” he murmured, still examining the hallway. Not far down from where they were, he could see a dark hollow where the corridor branched off. As they made their way through the chilly hallway, they passed more tributary halls; most were silent, but every once in a while a burst of noise would echo from somewhere distant. One other time they saw someone else, a petite, lightly-built man who nodded at the woman before falling into step beside her. They conversed softly in a language he thought was Polish, but his grasp of Slavic languages wasn’t strong enough to be sure.

Twenty two minutes later, they turned down one of the smaller tunnels. He did some quick calculations, trying to decide where they were. Walking speed, time travelled, and side of the street should put them somewhere around –

“The Cosmopolitan. Classier.”

He nodded, his eyes widening in exaggerated realisation. “I suppose I should have suspected. Everything pointed much too cleanly to the Venetian.”

“You’re getting sloppy,” the petite man taunted, his voice thickly accented. The gun shifted slightly as the woman nudged her companion’s arm in reproach, but her soft laugh rippled down the hallway.

Another lift controlled by key card and thumbprint scanner dropped them in a private penthouse suite at the top of the Cosmopolitan hotel. More out of instinct than anything else his eyes darted around the room, taking in as many details as he could. There wasn’t much – the suite was professionally bland, with no signs of permanent habitation. Two people perched on the cream-coloured sofa in front of the television, the man relaxing into the pale cushions with loose limbs while the woman sat tightly at the edge of her seat. Upon the entry of the three newcomers, both turned to look at the doorway. The woman’s eyes lit upon him, the corners tightening in irritation or a warning, he couldn’t tell which. He shrugged a shoulder at her.

The man stood, straightening and re-buttoning his jacket while turning to face the door. “Mr James? So glad you could join us.” His accent was American, with a hint of a southern drawl. Strawberry blonde hair fell in thick waves over his lined forehead, and his grey eyes skimmed appraisingly over the room’s three new occupants. “Do please have a seat. I apologise for the welcome; hired help can be so difficult at times, wouldn’t you agree?”

He tilted his head in mocking politeness to the man, auburn curls falling briefly in front of his narrowed eyes. “The pleasure is mine. Mr Hardy, I presume?”

“At your service. Can I offer you anything? Wine? Beer?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Of course.” Both men settled on the sofa, masking wariness of each other beneath façades of self-assurance.

“Nice place,” he said, his tone wry, as he watched his two escorts leave the room.

The man reached for a glass of water on the card table. “Yes, well, I am a casino owner. The luxury is a bit of a perk, isn’t it?” His lips parted into an insincere, toothy smile. “You’re quite a ways from home, aren’t you? Both of you, in fact.”

“I’ve always enjoyed travelling,” he retorted. In a brazen display of confidence he leaned back into the sofa, mirroring his host’s pose.

Hardy raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking in amusement. “Mmm, but this is more than a vacation, isn’t it?”

 

~~ ~~

 

I pushed away from the table, rubbing my stomach contentedly. “That was some of the best salmon I think I’ve ever had. Seriously, John, I need to make you cook more often.”

He chuckled. “Someone has to. I’m not sure we’d survive if you tried cooking every night.”

I stuck my tongue out. “Oi!”

This time his laugh was a full-on guffaw I couldn’t help but giggle along with. We chuckled our way into the sitting room, settling against each other on the sofa. He flipped through a medical journal as I worked on my laptop, and a relaxed quiet fell over the small flat.

 

~~ ~~

Hardy’s cool gaze remained on him, a fact Rose was clearly exploiting as an opportunity to contact someone. From the corner of his eye he could see her hand shifting underneath her leg as her thumb tapped at the screen of her phone. If she was calling in reinforcements, then his job was presumably to buy them time.

He slid an inch along the sofa cushion and angled himself to block the left side of Rose’s body, hiding the movement by reaching to adjust a spare coaster on the table. “How long have you known I was following you?” he asked, trying to keep Hardy’s attention on him.

The henchman rolled his eyes. “Please. We’re not the Boss, but there are some resources at our disposal. And we’ve been running the American side of things for years. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice you chipping away at us?” He laughed and sipped his water. “I will say, it’s quite impressive. I was particularly fascinated by that action in Oregon City. Sheer brilliance. Since last November you’ve caused more damage to our systems than that ridiculous agency has managed in ten years of pursuing us.”

“That “ridiculous agency” has managed to cripple many of your trades, has it not?”

“They left us running. Which is more than can be said for you.” Hardy’s eyes narrowed. “Not for much longer though.”

“Oh, are you threatening me?”

“I could be.”

He raised an eyebrow at the other man’s suddenly thoughtful tone, running through alternate interpretations his words. “You think you could convince me to join you?”

“It pays well,” Hardy responded, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Marvellous benefits.”

“Yes, but I heard the dental was lousy,” he replied smoothly.

Hardy laughed. “Well, you can’t have everything, can you?”

He rolled his eyes. Banter was only interesting for so long. Down to business. “Where is he?”

“He? He who?” Hardy raised a taunting eyebrow. “Oh, you mean _him_. _Tiger._ ” He shrugged, a low laugh rippling through his chest. “Don’t know.”

“Should I take that at face value?”

“You don’t have to. He hasn’t been in touch for a couple months, whether you believe it or not.”

“And why would you tell me that?”

The blonde shrugged again. “You asked? I’m a businessman, Mr James. Not a diabolical madman.”

“Trust me, I would never accuse you of being diabolical.”

Hardy spread his hands amiably. “Hardly anyone would. I’m known for my “cool head” and “even-keeled temper.””

“Yes, I saw that interview. Somehow they missed the tiny detail of you running a section of the largest criminal web in the civilised world.”

“Well, we all have our little secrets… don’t we?”

 

~~ ~~

“Lo, you wanna play pirates?”

“Liv, I’m _experimenting_. I don’t have time for pirates.”

“Pleeeeease? We haven’t played in _ages_. You’re always experimenting.”

“I played with you last Wednesday.”

“That was forever ago! _Loooohwuh_ …”

“This is very delicate, Liv.”

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-”

“Liv…”

“-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-”

“That won’t work.”

“-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-”

“Yes, fine! Alright.”

“Yes!” I grabbed him around the waist, chubby five-year-old arms barely reaching even around his skinny hips. “I’ll get the blankets!”

He stood from his desk with a put-upon sigh, but I could see the smile on his face as he scooped me into his arms. “I’ll get them. You’ll fall over again.”

“You’re the captain,” I announced.

“’Captain,’ from the Latin for head,” Mycroft’s voice suddenly inserted. I found myself in a hard wooden chair, the spindly legs of a preteen tapping against the floor in boredom. “Make sure you know your word origins. It will serve you well in your education.”

“John _Hamish_ Watson,” Harry slurred.

“I know your middle name, “ I teased.

“Captain Logan Bigbeard,” Lo proclaimed. He climbed onto the sofa-arm prow of our ship. “Plunderer of scientific breakthroughs everywhere.”

“Don’t be boring, Lo,” I complained. “We’re searching for treasure!”

“There is nothing more valuable than the pursuit of knowledge.” He hopped off the sofa arm.

“It’s a family name…Mum’s father’s side…” John’s voice drifted in and out of focus.

“Dad’s from London,” my lab partner said, his voice rolling with a Scottish lilt. “He moved to Edinburgh to impress Mum’s family. He says it’s the only reason she married him!” He laughed. “She wanted to name my brother Hamish, but Dad said I got the Scottish name. At least one of his sons needed a good British one!” He laughed again, pouring a nameless substance into a beaker. “So they compromised, used the English version of Hamish.”

“What’s that?” I asked, handing him another vial.

“James…”

“Logan! Land ahoy!”

“That’s Captain Logan to you.” Lo’s finger flipped my nose. I wrinkled it and stuck out my tongue. He chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners, and swung me onto his back. “Where are we this time?”

“Bah-sa-loona!”

“Barcelona,” he corrected.

“…some sort of swipe card,” Greg said. “Found it at the scene.”

“It’s an entry card,” I said. “It’s for an independent. Lo and I worked as independents.”

“Like an assassin?”

“No, we don’t need independents for that. More like someone with special skills, knowledge. Lo and I worked as independents.”

“What’s on the card? What’d you find?”

“The name…This might’ve been an official hit. May have been by an independent though. You know, Lo and I used to be independents.”

“Liv, take the wheel!” I found myself on the wooden deck of an old-time pirate ship, tiny feet tripping over themselves on the way to the wheel. “There’s a hurricane brewing!”

Wind whipped against my face, rain beginning to pour down in an overwhelming torrent. I grabbed the wheel tightly. “Captain, it’s too strong!” I was nearly thrown from my feet as rocking waves assaulted the sides of our ship. “I can’t hold it!”

“Just a few moments longer!” he cried, swinging from the rigging. “I’ll be right there!”

“I’ll try!” I shouted. The wheel pushed against my grip but I pushed back, desperate to keep the ship on track. “Captain!”

Suddenly he was behind me, strong arms caging me into safety, taking the wheel from my little hands. “It’s alright, I’ve got it,” he murmured into my ear. I pressed back against the security of his legs.

I waited for the swells to die down, for the wind to settle and the rain to subside like they always did, but the ship continued to rock perilously beneath my feet. Concerned and a little scared, I looked up at him.

The face that looked back at me was no longer that of an innocent thirteen-year-old, but rather a man who had seen too much. He stared at me blankly for a long moment, eyes unfocussed, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed. Heat radiated off of him in waves. I whimpered, young me not knowing the signs that older me quickly adapted to. At the sound, recognition dawned on his face. A smile began crawling slowly over his lips. I smiled tentatively back, relieved that he was coming back to normal. His hand crept onto my shoulder and squeezed a reassurance. It would all be okay, the storm would stop soon. I giggled and leaned against his comforting form.

With a loud crash, a rush of water flooded the deck of the ship. I heard it and grabbed for the security of the wheel, wrapping my arms tightly around its solid wooden base and clenching my eyes shut. The surge started to recede, taking with it the roaring wind and torrential rain. I laughed; I’d done it! I turned to give Lo a triumphant grin – but he was gone.

“Lo?” I peeked around the wheel. “Lo?” He wasn’t anywhere on deck. “Lo!” I ran to the rails, heart pounding; please no, please no, please… “Lo!” I screamed in panic. His hands just waved at me as he floated away. “Sherlock! _Sherlock!”_

 

~~ ~~

 

Where was the colonel? Hardy told the truth when he said there hadn’t been contact in some time, but why not? It was obvious that this trip was supposed to be a trap of some sort, that much was clear from the bogus file alone. He had a suspicion Flagstaff was a red herring as well, considering the prompt disappearance of their man upon arrival. “How long have you had someone inside the agency mail service?” he asked, breaking the silence that had descended upon the penthouse.

Hardy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re gracing us with your thoughts again. How pleasant.”

“Just answer the question,” he growled.

“You know, it’s incredibly rude to issue orders to someone in their own rooms. I consider myself a reasonable man, but I have to draw the line somewhere.”

“Yes, well. I never cared much for being polite.”

_Bit not good_ floated through his head at the same time that Rose’s toes bumped against the back of his ankle.  He shifted his foot, hoping it would discourage her from trying that again – it wasn’t her job to tell him right from wrong – and ignored the familiar voice echoing between his ears.    

Hardy stood with his now-empty glass and moved into the suite’s kitchen.  “I love staying in hotels,” he rambled.  “The kitchens are always stocked for you.”  He turned to face them from behind the bar.  “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“I would love a good martini,” Rose piped up.  Her toes nudged his ankle again.  He shifted his head to look at her out of the corner of his eye.  She was blinking at a rate 2% more rapidly than she normally did; not enough for someone as dense as Hardy to notice, but to someone observant it was one of her tells.  She was anxious about something.

“There, you see?  Someone who recognises good manners.”  Hardy turned to his refrigerator.  “I assume stirred is alright, my dear?  Or do you like your martinis Bond style?”

“Oh, whatever works for you,” she trilled. The tip of her shoe made contact with his ankle for a third time. He tapped his heel once against the soft carpet to let her know she had his attention.

Hardy was still babbling in his kitchen. “I always loved Bond as a child, you know. What boy doesn’t? Am I right?” He chuckled. “What about you, Mr James? It seems to me you would have loved 007.”

“I was more of a Poirot fan, myself,” he replied.  

“Ah. A big reader, were you?”

“Some.” The phone had made its way back to Rose’s pocket, her long fingers now tapping against her knee. He watched for a pattern – Morse, perhaps – but it seemed to just be a nervous tic. Her blink rate had increased again as well.

Hardy finished preparing Rose’s drink, then snagged a fresh bottle of water from the refrigerator before moving back to the sitting area of the suite. As he rounded the half-bar, the sound of a key card and beep of admittance came from the front door. Hardy looked over his shoulder with a light frown which deepened to a scowl at the sight of the Italian guard. “What is it?” he demanded.

“I quit,” she announced, levelling her gun at his forehead.

He burst into laughter. “Come now, doll. No need to be melodramatic.”

“Occupational hazard,” she grinned.

Hardy’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his cool mask beginning to slip. “Don’t be ridiculous. Put that silly little toy away.”

She tilted her head at him. “Not a toy.” The hand not holding the pistol reached for something in the waistband of her trousers.

“James, duck.” Rose breathed the warning into his ear bare moments before a projectile sliced neatly past his head. He blinked at the knife shivering point-first in the back of the sofa.

Rose stood while yanking it from the cushion. “Thanks, Celia.”

“No problem,” the woman replied. “I kept it safe for you. Know how much you love those.”

“Much quieter than your weapon of choice,” Rose agreed with a nod at the gun.

“Is he useful?” Celia tilted her head at him, not taking her eyes from Hardy.

“His brain is faster than his trigger finger, but he could probably hold his own.”

“Keep him out of my way, then. I don’t want to take any chances.”

Rose blocked him off from the action, her slender build belying the strength with which she pushed her way in front of him. “James, she means it. Stay back.”

A low rumble issued from Hardy, who stood there chuckling to himself. “You two are amusing. I am somewhat impressed, of course. I had no idea Celia was a plant, congratulations. But two women with little weapons are hardly enough to get out of here.”

“Pasha’s not coming,” Celia informed him. “So you can drop your call button.”

A plastic handheld button dropped to the carpet. “I would be remiss if I only had two guards at any given time.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been working for you, remember?” Celia kicked the button to Rose, who bent to retrieve it and tucked it in her pocket.

“Jeremy’s on his way,” she informed the room… redundantly, it turned out, as loud footsteps echoed down the hallway before she could even finish speaking. A small team of operatives in black body armour spilled into the room. He watched as they spread out to do a cursory examination of the space, the leader stopping to exchange brief words with Rose before gathering two others to help with the apprehension of John Hardy. It was all over quite quickly, especially considering the amount of time that had gone into planning the operation.

His mind was running through transportation options to Boston when Hardy’s voice interrupted the soft murmuring of the team. “Mr James, you asked me about the Colonel.”

The agent leading Hardy out of the room cuffed the back of his head and tried to manhandle him through the door.

“No, let him speak,” he commanded, surging to his feet. “I’m listening.”

The agent glanced at her team leader, who nodded. She turned herself and her captive around so they were facing the room. “Go on,” she growled.

Hardy smiled. “I was telling the truth, I don’t know where he is. But you won here, fair and square. I’m a gambler, I know when to admit I’ve lost. So, in the spirit of fair play, it’s my duty to give the winner something. Want to know what you’ve won?” He raised a mocking eyebrow. “I’ll tell you what he told me before cutting contact.” His amiable grin twitched into a satisfied smirk. “He told me to keep an eye out for silly hats. Have you noticed any silly hats? Because I found one. And I brought it here two months ago.”

He forced himself to keep his face blank, even as he felt the blood trying to drain from his already pale cheeks. “Is the colonel aware of your findings? Or were you waiting to tell him in person?”

Hardy just shook his head. “Oh, no. Your winnings only included one hint. You’re going to have to find the rest out yourself.”

Rose touched his elbow as the agent walked Hardy from the suite. “What was that about?”

“I sent you several documents concerning the East Coast branch of the web. You’re going to have to take care of that yourself.” Did he still have contact information for Martin? He had been a useful resource in the past…

“Yeah, okay. You’re an independent, you do what you want. That still doesn’t answer my question.”

He tore his eyes away from the now-empty doorframe to look down at her. “I need to disappear. What he was telling me is that I have been compromised. I will be adopting a new identity and moving to Europe.”

Rose swore. “You’re sure?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

“Oh right. I forgot who I was talking to.” She rolled her eyes, then released a heavy sigh. “Be careful.”

“I’ll stay underground for a while, do some research.” He began walking from the room. “This is good, Rose. You know what to look for now. With both of us working on different continents, the web will be brought down that much faster.”

“Will you stay in touch?”

He paused and looked at her, blinking in surprise. That wasn’t a request he received very often. “It won’t be safe,” he eventually managed. “Not at first, anyway.”

“Well, when it is. Feel free to shoot me a text anytime.” Her hand squeezed his arm, not flirtatiously, but with the comfort of those who have shared trust out of necessity. “Okay?”

He grunted noncommittally and started walking again, with her falling into place at his shoulder. “If I find anything important I will be sure to inform you of it,” he eventually conceded.

“Yeah, I’ll miss you too,” she replied.

 

 

~~ ~~

 

I jolted awake with a light startle. Residual panic from the nightmare flared up again when my arm brushed the empty sheets beside me, but as soon as I sat up I could see John perched in his armchair, peering at me over the top of a novel. “You okay?” he asked.

I blinked, trying to get rid of the dampness in my eyelashes. “Yeah.”

He closed the book, holding his page with a finger. “What was it about?”

“Sherlock.” I lay back down, hoping to discourage further questioning. “Why are you awake?”

I could hear his t-shirt rustle against the back of the chair when he shrugged. “Just restless.”

“Mmm.” I flipped over, shuffling around with the blankets. Nothing seemed comfortable, and when I closed my eyes I could still see the shadow of Sherlock’s fingers sinking beneath the waves. With an irritated huff, I sat up and swung my legs out of bed.

John scooted to the edge of the chair, but I waved him off. “No, stay here. I just need to stretch my legs.”

“You sure?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

He settled back into the chair and reopened the book. “Let me know if you need anything, love.”

I wandered aimlessly around the kitchen and sitting room for a while, trying to calm my nerves with the motion of my feet. I let random thoughts circle through my mind without focussing in on any of them, just allowing them to flit in and around each other. After about fifteen minutes John brought his book out to the sofa. I caught his eyes following me with concern more than once while I paced the flat, until he gave up all pretence of reading and the book made its way to his lap. “Mary, come here.” He lifted an arm in invitation.

I sighed and settled against him. “What are you thinking about?” he murmured.

“This dream,” I responded. “I can’t get it out of my head. It wasn’t a nightmare, not really. Not until the end. But it was very – sporadic. And mostly memories, but not exactly the way they happened.”

“What kinds of memories?” His hand brushed up and down my arm.

“Games Sherlock and I used to play. My uni biology lab. All sorts of things, really.”

“My therapist used to say dreams were ‘manifestations of the subconscious,’ or some such nonsense,” he remarked. “That never helped me much, but it could be true. Maybe you’re just thinking about him.”

“And you,” I grinned. “Hamish.”

He threw his head back with a joking groan. “You’re never gonna let this go, are you?”

“Did you know it’s a Scottish variation of James?” I grinned.

“Tell me about these games you used to play,” he retorted with a smile. “I deduce they were about pirates.”

“Lucky guess,” I accused.

“Informed guess.”

“Mycroft.” I shook my head. “Yes, we played pirates. He was the fearless captain of our ship. Captain Logan Bigbeard, plunderer of scientific breakthroughs everywhere.”

“Where did that name come from?” he asked with an amused chortle.

“When I was little I couldn’t say ‘Sherlock,’ so I shortened it to ‘Lo.’ The name stuck, but he insisted it was too short for a proper pirate, so when we played he lengthened it to Logan. And of course he needed to make it a pirate name, so he…” I trailed off abruptly, the grin fading from my face as the names suddenly clicked into place. “Logan James,” I whispered.

“What was that?”

I jumped to my feet and rushed to the bedroom where my laptop was charging on the nightstand. It was the work of only a few moments to turn it on and find the photo Greg sent me back in May. I curled on the bed with the cleaned version, trying to find some little detail I had missed, but all I could see was the name blaring up at me like a bad joke. “Logan James. Coincidence?”

_What do we say about coincidence?_ Mycroft demanded.

I scowled at the computer screen. “What the hell?”


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

“Who identified Sherlock’s body?”

Greg’s head snapped up from his computer. “What?”

I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe of his office. “Who identified Sherlock’s body?”

His forehead wrinkled. “Why? Should I be concerned?”

I rolled my eyes. “Just answer the question.”

“John, initially, but they called Mycroft in to confirm.” He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Why?”

I shrugged. “Just curious. I’m going to lunch.”

His brown eyes softened with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You and I never really talked about what happened.”

“I’m fine, Greg. I’ve talked to John, I know what happened. I realised while I was working that I didn’t know who’d identified him, is all, and you were convenient. And I don’t really want to bring it up again with John anyway.” I pushed away from the door. “Right now I’m hungry, so I’m going to lunch.”

“I can be at a stopping point. Want some company?”

“John’s meeting me around the corner.”

He raised his eyebrows, his mouth stretching into a little grin. “Oh, I see. Have fun!” He winked.

“Shut up,” I chuckled.

“Nope,” he retorted.

I wandered away, still laughing under my breath. At the desk, the other administrative assistant greeted me while I retrieved my purse. I tossed a joke over my shoulder on my way to the lift, and giggled when she retaliated with a truly awful pun.

I sent a pre-composed text to Mycroft while the lift took me to the first floor.

A black car pulled up in front of NSY barely five minutes after I stepped through the front doors.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the temporary safe house.

 

 

“What are you doing?” Mycroft drawled as soon as I walked through the door. He was sitting on the sofa, his umbrella propped against the arm.

“I needed the computer,” I replied. “You don’t have to come check on me every time I use the house.”

“Well, you won’t come see me any other way.”

I rolled my eyes, perching on the old desk chair and logging into the computer. “Exactly the way you like it.”

“Why do you need the computer?”

“I need to check something in the database.”

“You’re being vague.”

“Oh good, you noticed.” I tapped my fingers against the desk while I waited for the computer to finish processing my login. “You can leave whenever. Don’t feel obligated to stick around.”

He leaned back against the sofa. “I believe I can stay for a while. I’m on my lunch break.”

“Oh yes, I forgot. Running the civilised world isn’t necessary for the hour after noon.”

His lip twisted. “At one point you were never so sarcastic. You used to be the sweet one.”

“So sorry to disappoint.” I pulled up the agency database and navigated to the operative directory.

He sighed. “I don’t know what you’re hiding from me, but you only become this antagonistic when you’re keeping secrets. What exactly are you looking for?”

**Kristov, Kumler, Kutch, Kyrene…** “I want to see if this independent is in the system. That’s all.” … **Jacobs, Jaer, Jaller – James.** I clicked on the folder icon.

“The one working with your partner.”

“Yes.” There were five identities currently in use with the surname James. I hovered my cursor over **James, Logan** , suddenly hesitant to see what the file held.

“Why now?” I knew better than to believe the uninterested tone of Myc’s voice. He wouldn’t still be here if he cared so little.

“Why not?” I retorted. I double-clicked on the file.

“Carolivia.”

The use of my full name caught my attention. I looked away from the computer and raised an eyebrow at him. “Was that really necessary?”

“You stopped ignoring me,” he responded. “So yes, I’d say it was. Now, I would like a real explanation of this endeavour.”

I huffed at him. “You know, I’m not sixteen anymore. I haven’t been for a while.”

He raised a bored eyebrow. “You’re hedging again.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know why now. It just seemed like a good time.” I refocused on the computer, where an error message was blinking at me. “What do you mean I’m not authorised?” I closed the box and tried clicking on the file again. The same message popped up on the screen. “Of course I’m authorised. I’m authorised for everything.”

“You do realise that shouting at the computer will not change anything.”

“Shut up, Myc,” I growled. I tried the file a third time. When it still didn’t work I navigated to my account screen, muttering under my breath.

“They may have changed your permissions for the duration of this assignment,” Mycroft suggested, rising to his feet.

I shook my head. “No, I should still have access to employee files. I have surveillance status within the system. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, I need to be able to gain information on operatives in case I’m assigned to a mole job. Besides, it’s too much hassle to make that change for it to happen for a single assignment.” As if to confirm my statement, my employee profile finished loading. The word ‘surveillance’ still sat next to the ‘operative status’ category. I waved him over. “See? I should be able to open the file. It’s locked, for some reason.”

“Why would they do that?”

I pushed away from the desk so I could pace. “I don’t know. It’s pretty rare, especially for independents. I’ve only seen it a few times, myself. Agents can request total anonymity from other operatives, but they’re so rarely approved that most don’t even bother.” I frowned, still wearing a path from one side of the room to the other. “Usually it’ll only go through if there are civilian lives on the line.”

He straightened to follow me with his eyes. “I can look into it.”

I paused and smirked. “You really think that you can get into our systems.”

“It’s worth a try. I do have some resources.”

I grinned at the affront in his voice. “Oh, Mycroft, did I hurt your feelings? I apologise, I meant no injury to you or your resources.”

He sniffed. “You aren’t funny.”

“I think I’m hilarious.” I gave up pacing and plopped back in the desk chair. “Feel free to look into him if you want, but I doubt you’ll be able to find anything. If he really has been approved for total anonymity then they’ll have made him invisible. We’re _very_ thorough when we need to be.”

“What are you planning to do next?”

I shrugged. “There isn’t much I _can_ do. If I’m restricted I’m restricted. I can’t even contact the agency right now for an appeal since we’ve cut my direct contact, and anyways, they’d want justification. Plain curiosity isn’t enough to revoke an anonymity agreement.”

He settled back on the sofa with a flat groan. “So this was all a waste of my time. Wonderful.”

“You’re not going to pretend this is what you had planned all along? I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.” He let his eyes close as he leaned against the back of the sofa. “Spain is being remarkably difficult today. I should have stayed in the office.”

“You needed the fresh air,” I replied. “We can’t have you starting a war with Spain, can we?”

He huffed in mild indignation. “Do have more faith in my self-control.”

I laughed, then quiet settled for a brief moment. “Myc, did you identify Sherlock’s body?” I murmured.

Intense blue eyes opened and met my gaze. “Yes.”

“You’re sure it was him.”

He sat straight up, posture stiffening again. “Yes.” He narrowed his eyes. “Is that what you were doing? You thought you’d found him.”

“I didn’t know what to think. It was just an idea.”

I could see emotions flitting in brief muscle twitches across his face. Eventually came to a decision, his eyes settling somewhere between distance and pity. “He’s gone, Liv. I’m sorry.”

“No, yeah, I know. I’ve been to his grave, remember.” I quickly closed all the windows and shut the computer down. “I need to get back to work. Is my car still here?”

He nodded. “You could come with me. You haven’t actually eaten yet, and I still have a little time before the Spanish Ambassador expects me back.”

I wavered – lunch invitations from Myc were few and far between, and always delicious – but it would also mean having to answer more questions. Avoidance won out over my stomach. “Nah, I brought a sandwich this morning. I’ll be fine.”

“I can still tell when you’re lying to me,” he chastised before reaching for his mobile. “Please ensure Ms Morstan is fed before she is returned to work,” he commanded into the speaker, then he tucked it back in his jacket. “Your driver has his orders. Please don’t make his life difficult.”

“Never.”

He held the door for me on our way out. “And the sarcasm returns. Promise me you will actually eat something.”

“Concern, Mycroft? Really?”

“Duty, I believe.” He wrinkled his nose at the thought before returning to business. “I’ll see what I can find for you on this James character.”

I brushed my fingers along his elbow in thanks and ducked into my car. Before long we were back to the hustle and bustle of London, the whizzing cars providing a perfect parallel to the buzzing thoughts in my brain.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stuck a reference to the show in this chapter because I could. See if you can find it :)

The rest of August and September slipped by in a jumbled blur, the days zipping past without my permission. Thoughts of mysterious independent agents ended up pushed to the back of my mind, buried amidst thoughts of work and relaxing nights with John, and before I knew it October rolled around.

On the fifteenth, I got a text from Rose.

**What should I wear for Halloween?**

I rolled my eyes. _You’re actually gonna celebrate?_

**I was invited to a party. Thought it might be fun :)**

_Anyone interesting going?_

**There might be.**

Ah, she was following a lead. _You taking your friend along?_

**He left for Europe a couple months ago. Haven’t seen him since.**

_You never told me that._

**You never asked.**

Yeah, okay. She had a point. _What’s he doing?_

**Dunno. He hasn’t been in touch. What should I wear to the party?**

_Depends on who you’re going after._

I found myself sucked into a conversation about targets and manipulation, distracted enough by my mobile that I barely noticed John come in and press a kiss to my forehead. It was well over an hour before I surfaced from the fog of strategy I had descended into… at which point I realised John was not in my general vicinity. Typically he would putter around in the kitchen or settle next to me on the sofa when he got home from work, even if I was already absorbed in something. I was fairly certain I remembered him arriving at the flat, and I didn’t have any recollection of him telling me he was going back out. With a slight frown, I slid to my feet. “John?”

“Yeah?” rang down the hallway. When I padded to the end of the sitting room, I could see his head poking out of the bedroom.

“Just wondering where you were. I thought I heard you come in.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, you were focussed. I didn’t want to bother you.” He still wasn’t coming all the way out into the hall, only his head visible where it hung through the doorway.

“Whatcha doing?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he responded, just a little too quickly.

I raised an eyebrow. “Really? Nothing.”

“Mmm. What were you doing?”

“Texting.” I stepped forward. “Why don’t you come out to the sitting room? I’ll make you a cuppa.”

“I’m comfortable in here for now. Maybe in a few.” He ducked back into the bedroom.

Uh-huh. John never turned down tea. I balanced on the balls of my feet, unsure whether I wanted to push the issue or not. He didn’t seem upset or threatened; on the contrary, he’d had a giddy glint in his eyes. So, did I leave him to his secrets? Or did I try and figure out what he was up to?

With a soft sigh, I headed to start dinner. A bright yellow post-it that was stuck to the fridge caught my eye as soon as I entered the kitchen.

**DON** **’** **T MAKE DINNER** ** _,_** it commanded in John’s chicken scratch. I yanked it down, turning it around to see if there was something on the other side. The backside was blank. I stared at it for a moment, confused, then marched back down the hallway and pounded on the now-closed bedroom door.

John’s head poked back out. “What?”

I didn’t say anything, just held up the note for him to read. The side of his mouth quirked – definitely up to something. I scowled. “What are you doing?”

“Give me five more minutes,” he responded, then shut the door again. Bemused, I wandered back to the kitchen to put on the kettle. I was leaning against the worktop with a steaming cup of tea when he came in, wrapped in his dressing gown, and handed me another note. This one read **GO TO THE BEDROOM**.

“I could have gathered that much myself,” I informed him.

He kissed me and took the note back. “Yes, but now I’m giving you permission,” he murmured against my lips, stealing my mug while I was distracted.

“Get your own,” I argued, trying to steal it back, but he lifted it behind him and kissed me again.

“Bedroom,” he stated. “Then tea.”

I stuck my tongue out, making him laugh, and left him in the kitchen. Another post-it hung from the door of the wardrobe: **OPEN ME** **.** Then one on a garment bag on the hook behind the door: **WEAR ME** **.** I unzipped the bag to find that he’d had my favourite dress – one I’d never actually had occasion to wear since coming back to London – dry-cleaned. I took it down with a smile and wondered who he’d asked about the dress. Probably Greg.

A wolf-whistle echoed through the sitting room when I emerged from the hallway. I grinned and perched next to him on the sofa, sweeping the deep blue fabric out of the way so it wouldn’t wrinkle when I sat. “What’s the occasion?”

“I love you,” he beamed. “Isn’t that occasion enough?”

“I love you too,” I leaned in to plant a kiss on his nose. “But I’m still putting money on it being something else. You’re up to something.”

“Always so suspicious.”

“Always.” I stood, patting my hair to make sure it was still in place. “We have reservations, I assume?”

Another post-it appeared in my hands, reading **FOR THE DRIVER** with an address underneath. “Didn’t your hand get tired, writing all these?” I asked. I was interrupted by the honking of a horn.

He rose to his feet and shrugged out of his dressing gown, revealing a charcoal suit underneath the old terrycloth. “That’s us. Got everything?”

“Uh-huh.” My purse still rested on the side table by the front door, so I grabbed it on my way out. A black car idled in front of our flat. I looked sideways at John, who had trailed me out of the front door. “You borrowed a car from Mycroft.”

“It was important. I figure Sherlock will forgive me just this once.”

I laughed. “Only if it’s _really_ important.”

He slid two slim rectangles of cardstock into my hand. “Rossini is involved, so I think he will.”

“You don’t even know who Rossini is,” I giggled, turning over the tickets to look at them closer. “Box seats?”

“William Tell Overture,” John retorted. “And yes, box seats.”

I slid onto the plush rear seat of the vehicle and leaned forward to hand the post-it to the driver. “Rossini was always my favourite. Sherlock preferred Vivaldi, I think.”

John hummed and smiled. I nudged him with my shoulder. “You asked Greg, didn’t you? About all of this?”

“I can figure out how to look through someone’s iPod,” he argued.

“Fair enough.” I smiled and leaned against him. “Are we going straight there?”

“I thought some dinner first would be nice.”

My eyes widened when we pulled up in front of the restaurant. “How on earth did you manage to get reservations here?”

“I know people,” he waggled his eyebrows.

“Does Mycroft know you used him to get dinner reservations?” I laughed.

“His assistant does, anyway. I can only assume she told him.”

“She tells him everything.” I clambered out of the car, smoothing down my skirt to make sure it hadn’t crumpled against the seat.

John came up behind me and took my hand. “You look fine,” he murmured. “Beautiful.”

“You have to say that,” I responded with a grin.

He chuckled. “We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was true, would we? Come on, I’m starved.”

 

 

Dinner was delicious, and the concert spellbinding. John dozed off somewhere about seven minutes into the _La Gazza Ladra_ Overture, snoring gently into my shoulder until I nudged him awake at intermission. He muttered a sheepish apology that I brushed off, and refused to let me take him home before the second half.

Mycroft’s car was waiting for us when we emerged from the Royal Festival Hall an hour later. We tumbled into the backseat, giddy on each other and post-concert adrenaline, snuggling and stealing kisses the entire drive home. As we approached the flat, I nudged John’s shoulder with my own. “You promised me my tea,” I teased. “I never got my tea back.”

“I will make you the best cuppa you’ve ever tasted,” he grinned, leaning in for a kiss. I turned away, presenting him with my cheek instead of my lips.

“Not until I have my tea,” I countered with a wink.

We spilled into the flat in a cascade of giggles. “Go wait in the sitting room,” he ordered, grinning madly. “I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

“I don’t know, I’m starting to think I may want to go straight to the bedroom. Tea can come later.”

“No, you said you wanted tea, so tea you shall have.” He escaped to the kitchen, leaving me to decide whether I should actually go to the bedroom or go the sitting room like he’d said. I hesitated at the back of the sitting room for a moment before taking a step towards the hallway. As I turned away from the sofa something on the coffee table caught my eye, a flash of yellow against the dark brown wood. Curious, I moved towards the sofa.

Sitting in the centre of the low table was a small velvet box, crowned with a yellow post-it note. Scrawled across the paper, in a doctor’s scratch I would recognise anywhere, were two words.

**MARRY ME?**

I left for the bedroom before he could return with my tea, but not before looping a single word across the bottom of the note.

_Absolutely._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote up the scene where John talks to Mycroft, mostly as a reference for me so I maintained continuity through this chapter. I've posted it to tumblr if anyone is interested in reading it.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... um... Disneyland and... stuff.... Anyway, here's the new chapter! (I fully intend to get back on schedule next week. If I don't, come annoy me on tumblr until I do).

An unmarked private jet taxied down the runway at the deserted Glasgow Prestwick Airport. All incoming evening flights had been cancelled ‘due to weather,’ allowing the plain white jet to arrive in solitude.

Inside, a young stewardess checked on the single passenger for a final time. “Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?”

The man didn’t respond, his muddy brown eyes remaining glossed over in deep thought. She picked her way over to him in quiet steps. “Sir?” Her hand reached out and tapped his shoulder. “Sir, we’re disembarking soon.”

After a long moment, he blinked and glanced up at her. “Where are we?”

“Glasgow Prestwick Airport, sir.”

He turned slowly to the window. “And it’s raining. How predictable.” With a heavy sigh he ruffled his ginger curls, then leaned back against the soft headrest of his seat and closed his eyes. “Tell the captain I would like to speak to him before I leave.”

“Yes, sir.”

He retreated back into his head, unaware of the passage of time, until a gentle murmur came from above him. “You should be leaving soon.”

“How long have you been standing there, Martin?” he murmured without opening his eyes.

“Ten minutes or so. I know to let you think, but we’ve got to get moving or people will start asking questions.”

He blinked and heaved himself to his feet, feeling unusually stiff after the long flight. “Yes. Is there a car?”

“Waiting for you on the tarmac.”

“Good. And my luggage?”

“Being loaded into the vehicle as we speak.” The captain handed him a sheaf of papers. “Information on your lodgings. You’ve been placed in agency housing for the time being.”

“I need a new – ”

“Entry card. It’s in there.”

He tucked the papers under his arm. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“I’ll need you to stay local. I don’t know how long this will take, but I may need to leave at a moment’s notice.”

“I’ve notified the agency that you and I are working together. They approved the partnership and have put me on temporary assignment.”

He nodded. “Let me know if you find anything.”

“I’m just transportation,” the captain grinned. “You get to do the fun stuff.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, thrilling.” With another groan, he stretched his arms behind his back. “I can only hope it doesn’t rain the entire time I’m here.”

“Forecast doesn’t look good,” Martin commented. “It’s supposed to rain non-stop for the next two weeks at least.”

“Wonderful. That will make my job that much more difficult.”

The blonde cocked his head. “You, complaining about a demanding case? It’s not like you to run from a challenge.”

“Not running from, just tired of. I – miscalculated. I was supposed to be back in London by now.”

“Well, hop to it! The sooner you start, the sooner you finish!”

He raised an eyebrow. “’Hop to it’? Really, Martin, I thought you were raised better than that.”

“Not all of us had a stuffy linguist as a parent."

“And yet both you and your mother have an awful penchant for excessive use of language.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” The captain smiled. “It’s not meant to be a criticism.”

“As much fun as this conversation is, I would hate to leave my chauffeur waiting out in the rain.”

“Like you ever care about that. Phone if you need me, I’m staying not far from you.”

He waved a careless hand over his shoulder, already exiting the jet into the torrential downpour.

 

 

A week later and he was starting to make some progress on the Glasgow-Edinburgh branch of the web. He’d found a way to infiltrate their headquarters, successfully made friends with the important person who would allow him into said headquarters, and had even sent a lead on the Aberdeen branch to the agency for them to take care of. With any luck they would manage to send a halfway competent team who could take care of the minor shipping operations on their own.

The burner phone he’d been provided for the Scotland leg of his journey buzzed against the off-white duvet. He picked it up to see a text alert from the agency.

**It’s Rose. Haven’t heard from you since LV. Agency said they could fwd to your number.**

_I’m fine. In Scotland. Finished Boston yet?_

**Not yet, bossy-pants. Hoping to move to Miami next week.**

_New Jersey?_

**Collapsed two weeks ago. NJ and Boston were pretty closely connected. The guys here are getting nervous but still don’t know it’s me.**

_Don’t do anything monumentally stupid._

**Yeah, you take care of yourself too.**

He dropped the mobile back to the bed with a sigh and returned to his laptop. John still hadn’t updated his blog. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, considering the blog had been devoted to chronicling his cases ( _our cases – no, shut up)_ , but some small part of him was disappointed there was nothing new. Only because it meant he couldn’t keep an eye on John. Not for any real sentimental reason. It had to do with safety, that was all. He couldn’t care less whether John was still working for that dull clinic, or if he was still at Baker street… whether he’d found some other insipid female upon which to bestow his time… none of that was important.

Suddenly angry with himself, he closed the window. He was supposed to be focussing upon the mission, not pining for London.

 

 

“Siggy!” Daniels clapped him heavily on the back. “Good to see you, mate. Thought you were a no-show for tonight.”

“Would I do that to you?” He’d adopted a thick southern drawl and convinced the head here that he was a transfer from the Atlanta headquarters. “Every week, ain’t that the rule?”

“Yeah, mate. Wilson would’ve blown a gasket if you weren’t here. He already don’t trust you.”

He shrugged. “I’m new. It happens.”

“Not on my watch, it don’t. We may be criminals, but we’re fair to each other. Otherwise how do we survive? We gotta watch each other’s backs, you know?”

“Of course. That’s my motto, watch out for your fellow criminal.”

Daniels guffawed and completely missed the sarcasm tainting his voice. “You’re alright, mate.”

He followed the brunette into the pub. The Glasgow branch seemed to have a very traditional idea of a crime ring, right down to cryptic passwords and meeting in the back room of a seedy pub. His guide tapped twice, paused, then tapped three more times on the worn door to the back room. A double-knock came from inside, prompting Daniels to murmur the password of the week through the wood. It was apparently correct, since the door swung open to reveal most of the top members of the branch sitting around a circular table with mugs of ale.

“Daniels, you’re almost late,” one of them growled. “Who’s this?”

“Siggy, remember? He came last week.”

“The American. Right.”

“Hey, is it true about Hardy and Cunningham?” someone else piped up. “I heard some mysterious spy got them both arrested. Milner’s the only one left running the States.”

The speaker’s neighbour smacked the back of his head. “No spreading rumours! It’s bad luck.”

Daniels threw an arm around his shoulders, leading him to two chairs at the back of the room. “We’ll sit here,” he muttered. “It’s a bit more civilised for you, since you’re new.”

“Oh, I can hold my own,” he grinned, but he still gratefully followed the taller man to the rear corner, smoothing his fingers over his fake moustache.

Loud chatter continued to ring through the room as people spoke over and across each other in variations of the rolling Scottish brogue, with the odd Irish lilt thrown in. Latecomers trickled in one by one and took their seats around the room. Eventually a redheaded woman took control, pounding loudly on the table for everyone’s attention before turning to matters of business.

“Oi, where’s Wilson?” someone demanded of the speaker.

“Wilson’s busy. He’ll be here later,” she explained. “Since he won’t be here until later, we’re going to do collections now.” She opened the metal box on the table in front of her and started calling names. As people were summoned, they emerged from the crowd to present her with their section’s earnings for that week. She’d mark it down in a ledger before crying the next name.

Daniels thrust an elbow into his side. “What d’you think, Sigs? Is Scotland for you?”

He shrugged. “Hard to say. Don’t have much choice, though, do I?”

The other man laughed. “Not really!”

“Do you ever hear from anyone above Wilson?” He tilted his head and widened his eyes, and kept his voice light and curious. The perfect picture of an naïve newcomer full of innocent questions.

“Only ones above Wilson are the Colonel and the Boss, and if you hear from them you better make your peace with your maker,” Daniels replied.

“What do you know about them? They’re that bad?”

Daniels raised an eyebrow. “They keep you under a rock in Atlanta? We all know about the Colonel here. He used to be a sniper for the British Army before the Boss got to him. Now he’s just a sniper, but a damn good one. Make someone angry and you could end up with a bullet between your eyes and no idea how it got there.”

“Does Wilson talk to them? The Colonel and the Boss?”

Daniels shrugged. “He gets orders from somewhere, don’t he?”

At that point the woman pounded on the table again and moved onto real orders of business, demanding his companion’s attention. He settled back in his chair and just listened for the rest of the evening.

 

 

November twenty-first. It was November twenty-first, he’d been here for three weeks, and he had very little to show for it besides two meetings and a new best friend. He flung his phone at the bed with a snarl before resuming his pacing around the small room. What he needed was leverage, some way to prove to the authorities that both Wilson and his redheaded assistant were involved in this ring. Wilson in particular would be difficult, since he was a popular member of local government.

He dropped to the bed and sprawled on his back, steepling his fingers below his chin. There were no computer files he could try to make off with, since everything was run on paper. The communal meeting space meant there was no suspicious building he could lead authorities to. If it came down to the worst option he could try to exploit Daniels’ deep-rooted sense of camaraderie, but that was a tenuous plan at best that could easily be thwarted by the man’s equally established sense of loyalty.

Or he could go to the furthest extreme and call in an intervention team from the agency. It would be messy and heavy-handed, and there was a good chance he would have to change identities again and disappear to Asia. But it would clean everything up at once.

 

 

“You want me to do what?”

“Shh.” He looked around, putting on a show of nervousness. “You don’t have to be involved, just show me where and keep watch for me.”

“That _is_ involved. Siggy, this is deep.”

“That’s why I need your help!”

Daniels wrung his hands. “Damn, Sigs, I dunno.”

“I promise, it’s all orders from above. Milner got word from the Colonel that he was supposed to send someone to look into your operation.”

“Because money’s been disappearing, yeah, you said. But I just don’t think Wilson would do that.”

“What about his assistant, the redhead? Um…”

“What, Kirstin? She might, I guess. But she’s smart. If it really is her, you’ll have a hard time proving it.”

He just stared meaningfully at Daniels until the other man sighed. “Yeah, alright. I’ll help you.”

This time when he visibly relaxed it wasn’t entirely for Daniels’ benefit. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d have done if you didn’t agree to this.”

“Gotten caught and killed, most likely.” Both men laughed in nervous, artificial mirth. “Next Tuesday, you said?”

“Tuesday after next. I still have some planning to do.”

“Right.” The brunette heaved a massive lungful of air, blowing it noisily back out through his teeth. “Well then. Hope Milner’s right about this, ‘cause if not you and I are both dead meat.”

 

 

“… and we need to work harder on bringing in the profits from the George Square section.” Wilson, a portly man with a bald head and greying moustache straight out of the 19th century, looked up from his notes. “Blackwood, that’s you. Stay after, we’ll discuss it.” He thumped a meaty palm against the table. “Alright, that’s it for tonight.”

The quiet room erupted into a cacophony of squealing chairs and loud chatter as people stood and began making their way into the night’s cold drizzle. “See you, Siggy,” Daniels shouted over the noise, clapping a hand against his arm before disappearing into the crowd.

He nodded in response and stood. His plan was to linger in the outer pub and hope for the rain to subside, but he paused when a distinctive red ponytail bobbed her way towards him. “Where’s your friend?” she asked. When he just shrugged, her brow furrowed in irritation. “Daniels. He’s always with you now, where is he?”

“He left. Why?”

“I need to talk to him.”

He fought to suppress the instinctive eye-roll and accompanying ‘obviously.’ “About what?”

She crossed her arms. “That’s none of your business, is it?”

He let his arms fall to his sides, his shoulders relax, his face become loose and open. “Hey, no harm meant. Just thought I could tell him, since I’ll see him before you.”

She peered up at him suspiciously. “Why’s that?”

“Well, like you said – he’s my friend. Friends see each other, don’t they?” he drawled.

Her gaze continued to bore into him. “Just tell him I want to see him,” she finally grit out.

“Will do.” He flashed a sincere-looking smile and wound his way to the back door. He didn’t trust her at all. Time to do some more research.

 

 

“No, G… Golf, G.” He pressed the burner between his head and shoulder, leaving his hands free to pin another document to the hotel wall. “Martin – no, Mar – Martin, shut up and listen. Mike Alpha Charlie Golf India November November India Sierra.”

“Oh, Mac _ginnis_ , got it. First name?”

“Kilo India Romeo Sierra Tango India November. Kirstin, I said that already.”

“Yeah, and do you know how many spellings there are for that name? Don’t answer, that was hypothetical.”

He shut his mouth with a soft click. He was tempted to argue the correct usage of hypothetical but decided it wasn’t worth the wasted time. “Do you have it entered yet?”

“Yeah, it’s thinking.”

“It’s a computer, Martin, it doesn’t think. It processes.”

“Stuffy. Linguist.” Silence across the line for a long moment, then, “She’s been busy.”

“How busy?”

“Let’s just say Glasgow isn’t her first job, not by a long shot. She’s been all over the United Kingdom under various identities. She spent a long time in Wales a few years ago, then moved to Ireland – Dublin specifically – and then over to Belfast in Northern Ireland. She’s been in and around Scotland a few times, Aberdeen, Dundee… Cumbernauld looks like her most recent stop.”

“It’s not that far from here,” he replied, sticking pins into locations as Martin listed them off.

“It doesn’t really shout ‘criminal empire,’ does it?”

“The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight. Where better to hide illegal activities? What was she doing there?”

“Nothing exciting. The usual.”

“Has she done anything “exciting” in any of these locations?”

“Mmmm… no, not really. Always a lower-level member of whatever organisation is there. Never part of any major operations the agency broke up.”

“Always right on the edges.” He narrowed his eyes. “Thank you, Martin. Stay close, I may need you soon.” He rung off and slid the mobile into his pocket, staring at the map. What was she doing?    

 

 

Daniels popped a chip into his mouth. “I have to hand it to you Siggy, you’re good at this covert nonsense. Me, all I’m good for is keeping watch and shooting people. You a spy or something?”

“Or something,” he muttered. “Now remember, if I’m not out in fifteen minutes then assume something went wrong. It shouldn’t take me that long to gather up a stack of papers.”

“Fifteen minutes. And you know where we’re meeting?”

Of course he knew where they were meeting. “Two streets down from the pub.” He reached for his drink, but aborted his hand’s path upon the sudden buzzing of the burner phone in his pocket. “Excuse me.”

Daniels grinned and reached for another chip. “No problem, mate.”

He stood, raising the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey. Listen, I just wanted to give you a heads up about something,” Rose jabbered into his ear.

“Luv, I’m in a meeting,” he shot back with a glance at Daniels. “Can’t this wait?”

“Not really. I don’t have a whole lot of time.”

He sighed. “Alright, hang on.” Pressing the phone to his shoulder, he grimaced at his lunch companion. “I’ve got to take this outside. Be back in a few.”

Daniels chuckled. “I get it, mate. When the lady calls…”

“You’re telling me.” He retreated to the sidewalk outside the small shop, turning his attention back to the mobile. “What is it?”

“We’re moving tonight to bring down Miami.”

“That’s the end of it.”

“Yep,” she confirmed. “Even better, Milner’s here now checking on things, so he’s coming down too. It’s all gonna be wrapped up in a beautiful parcel.”

“You’re waxing poetic again,” he drawled.

“I can’t help it. Getting rid of criminal empires brings out the artist in me.”

“What’s your plan after tonight?”

“I’ll probably come join you wherever you are. Unless they bring me back to Paris HQ for an extended debriefing.”

“Doubtful.” He glanced through the shop window to where Daniels was still cheerfully munching on their basket of chips. “Let me know what happens. I’m planning to make a move here soon, I need to stay updated.”

“Right. Stay safe, okay?”

He grunted, muttered “Keep me updated” into the mobile, and rung off.  

“Trouble in paradise?” Daniels teased when he slid back into his seat.

“Something about vacation plans,” he replied with an exaggerated moan. He took a chip and stuffed it in his mouth. “Which don’t have a thing to do with me, since I’ll still be here.”

The brunette chuckled in sympathy before returning to the notepad in front of him. “Run through this with me one more time?”

 

 

“Daniels?” He spun in a slow circle at the street corner where they were supposed to meet. “Daniels?”

No reply. He scowled in irritation. Of course the man would ten minutes early to every planning meeting, but be late on the actual day. He leaned against the nearest building to wait, pulling out a cigarette to avoid drawing attention as a loiterer. It dangled from his lips, a dangerous temptation, but he refrained from lighting up –mostly because he’d left his lighter in his rooms.

Half-past the time they’d set and his irritation began to recede into unease. He lingered a while longer, forcing himself to remain against the building rather than pacing up and down and attracting notice. If Daniels had decided last minute to go to Kirstin rather than follow through, he was a sitting duck and he knew it. It had been risky going to him in the first place…

The man in question turned the corner, his pace casual… very deliberately casual. “Siggy,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Alright there?”

“Want a smoke?” He extended a cigarette to Daniels.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The brunette accepted the gift in trembling fingers. “Got a light?”

“Was hoping you did.”

“Might.” He dug in his pockets, eventually withdrawing a lighter. “Need a hand?”

“Much obliged.”

The two men leaned in to each other to share the lighter’s flame, their foreheads nearly touching. “I was being followed,” Daniels breathed. “I think I lost them, but it took a long time.”

“Who?”

Daniels just shook his head, pulling back upright and returning the lighter to its pocket. He stood quietly, radiating nervous energy, taking a deep draw from the cigarette before puffing a cloud of smoke into the winter air. “Think it’s gonna rain again?”

“Tomorrow, I’d say.” He took in a shallow drag from his own cigarette. “Dinner?”

“Thought there were plans?”

“They can be postponed.” He didn’t want to jeopardise anything by jumping in if there was a risk. They weren’t on that tight of a schedule.

Daniels shook his head and released more smoke. “Not necessary, mate.”

He raised an eyebrow at his companion, then dropped the remains of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. “Should get going then.”

“Right.” Daniels’ stub met the same end as his own.

He tucked his hands in his pockets to protect them from the cold. “Can’t believe it’s December already.”

“Christmas plans?”

“Nah. Girlfriend’s visiting her parents, ain’t got anyone else to spend it with.”

“Aw, that’s too bad.”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first I spent alone. I’m not much into holidays. What about you?”

The turned onto the street where the pub squatted amongst a long line of equally rustic businesses. “Spending it with my kids,” Daniels answered with a small grin. “Twins, I’ve got. Sweet little things.”

“How old?”

“Seven. Their mum don’t approve of what I do, but… well, it pays, don’t it?”

“They have names?”

“Euan and Catrina.” His face folded into a proud smile. “So smart, the both of them. I hate that I’m hardly ever there for them. I miss so much. Christmas will be the first time I’ve seen them since – ”

Something whizzed past his face right as Daniels staggered into him. He caught the other man out of instinct, stumbling a little under the weight. “You alright?” he asked, rubbing sudden wetness from his cheek with his shoulder. “Think I was wrong about that rain.”

Daniels didn’t respond, nor did he attempt to regain control over his body. “Daniels?” Wetness seeped down his shoulder where his companion slumped against him. He shifted the body in his arms to try to see what it was, causing Daniels’ head to loll forward.

Entirely unprepared for the gaping hole that greeted him, he gagged when he caught sight of what used to be the side of Daniels’ skull. He managed to quickly bring himself under control – after all, it’s not like he hadn’t seen an exit wound before – hurrying into an alley between two buildings for cover. In all likelihood Daniels had been the target, considering no other shots had been fired despite his remaining in the open like an idiot, but he still had no desire to make himself an easy victim should the sniper change his mind.

He dropped Daniels to the ground and sagged against one of the alley walls. Damn. Just… damn. He sucked a deep breath through his nose to compose himself, blowing it out slowly through pursed lips. Fine. He had a murder. He knew what to do with murders. Start with data.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

I woke to the shrill ringing of John’s mobile that heralded a call from the clinic. He shifted beneath my head, leaning over to seize it from the bed stand without dislodging my cheek from his shoulder. I hummed contentedly to let him know I was awake but didn’t stir from my cosy spot.

He pressed a soft kiss to my head. “Sorry,” he murmured.

I hummed again. “S’alright. Need me to move?”

His thumb began stroking softly against my arm. “Not yet. They’ll phone back if it’s urgent, they know it’s early. Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm. You?”

“Better.”

I looked up at him. “Nightmares?” When he didn’t respond, I propped myself up onto my elbow so I could stare him in the eye. “You should’ve woken me.”

“It wasn’t that bad. You needed the sleep.”

I slid back down to lay my head on his chest, and we rested against each other for a while longer until his mobile went off again and dragged us into reality. I rolled over to let him get out of bed, not quite ready to face the world yet myself. He’d gathered clothes and headed to take a shower when my phone trilled, startling me out of the half-doze I’d drifted into. I fumbled across the bedside table, nearly knocking it to the floor before I could wrap my hand around it.

“Hello?” I answered blearily, pushing myself up to sit against the headboard.

“Livvie?”

And just like that, I was awake. “Who is this?” I checked the display on my phone, but it wasn’t a recognised number.

“Martin Carlton. Your cousin?”

The pilot, right. “Martin, of course. Are you still contracting as transport for the agency?”

He chuckled humourlessly. “Among other things. Did I wake you? This can wait.”

“No, it’s fine. I was just getting up.”

“Good.”

We sat in awkward silence for a long moment. “Um… did you have a reason for getting in touch? Not that I don’t like hearing from you, but we haven’t spoken for a while.” We had worked together more than once, but with him working as an independent rather than a full operative he never been assigned anything as confidential as ST. It had been years since we’d spoken, much less been on the same assignment. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I’m just on my way to London for a few days. I thought, if you were too, we could meet for lunch?”

“Lunch?” I swung my legs out of bed, tucking the mobile between my ear and shoulder while I reached for my dressing gown. “Um… sure, I guess. Any specific reason you want to see me?”

“I have something for you.”

Ah, it's work related. That makes more sense. Sort of. It was enough for me to go through with meeting up. “Does one o’clock tomorrow work?”

I could hear shuffling on his end of the line. I stood and stretched while he checked his schedule. “That’s fine,” he eventually said. “Bring a bag.”

My hands faltered mid-stretch, and I reached up to grab the phone. “I beg your pardon?”

His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I’ve got someone with me. You’re needed. Bring a bag.”

“I can’t, I’m on a personal assignment right now,” I hissed, throwing a glance at the open bedroom door. “I’m not even working for the agency.”

“ _Among other things_ , Livvie. This isn’t the agency, at least not directly.”

“I have a contract with the government.”

“This is more important than Mycroft. One o’clock, New Scotland Yard. Bring a bag.”

I heard the white noise of the shower stop. “If it’s not the agency, what is it?”

He sighed heavily into the phone’s speaker. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You’ve got to give me something, Martin.”  

“Does the name Sigerson mean anything to you? Johan Sigerson.”

My paternal grandmother’s maiden name. The Scandinavian equivalent of John. I swore under my breath. Logan James and now this? Either someone was toying with me or someone was sending me a message. Unfortunately I wasn’t exactly sure which. “A bag for how long?”

“A week at least.”

“I’m not sure I can be gone that long without raising suspicion. I’m pretty engrained here.”

“Figure it out. This is non-negotiable.”

“Who am I responsible to?”

“Me, right now. Then you become the responsible one.”

What? “How do you propose that? Responsible for whom?”

“Sigerson, I told you. He’s over in Scotland and causing a ruckus from what I can see. Not that that’s much different from his normal MO. Seems like even death didn’t mellow him out.”

Something clicked then, something that had been nagging in the back of my mind but I’d been studiously ignoring. “No.” I shook my head much harder than necessary, as if my vehemence could be transported through the mobile if I protested hard enough. “No, that can’t - No.”

“No what?” John walked in towelling his hair. I shrugged at him, then turned back to the conversation where Martin was murmuring nervously in my ear.

“What do you mean, no? He told you, didn’t he? I thought he would have told you, he tells you everything."

“Who would have told me what?” I leaned against the wall, trying to keep my face neutral. I was texting Mycroft to check on Martin as soon as I hung up. Considering how long it had been since our last contact, anything could have happened. Clearly the man was confused or ill. It was the only explanation. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured distractedly. I heard faint knocking, then Martin speaking. He’d moved the phone away from his face, so I couldn’t make out what he said.

John was watching me curiously. “Who’s that?”

“My cousin. He’s in town this week, he wants to meet for lunch tomorrow.”

“Cousin?”

I nodded as Martin came back on the phone. “Um, I might have been wrong. Don’t - don’t worry about that bag.”

Okay, calling Mycroft. “Um . . . Martin, are you _sure_ you’re feeling alright?”

“What’s up?” John walked over to stand beside me.

I waved him off. “Nothing, I think. I’m gonna take this in the sitting room. Martin, hang on a minute.” I headed out and lay down on the sofa. “Alright, what’s really going on?”

“You’re not Rose.”

I startled. “How do you know that name?”

“I was told to contact Rose. I assumed that was you… I was wrong?”

“Told by who? Sigerson?”

“Look, if you’re not Rose then I’ve made a mistake. I have to know.”

“No, I’m not Rose. Martin, _what is going on_?”

My only response was a whispered “Damn.”

“If you don’t start explaining right now, then so help me I will come find you and get answers that way. Who is Sigerson?” I could tell my voice was steadily increasing in volume and irritation, but couldn’t really bring myself to care.

“I can’t… are you alone?”

John had exited the bathroom when I started shouting, toothbrush hanging from his mouth and a concerned look on his face. I glanced at him, then back at the ceiling. In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have to deal with this until I figured it out. “No.”

“Then stop shouting and _please_ don’t say that name.”

Right. Right. A number of expletives came to mind, none of which I allowed past my lips. I shook my head at John, who was still watching me. When he started walking towards me, I shook my head again. “It’s fine, I’ve got it under control. Finish getting ready, you’ll be late.”

He nodded and retreated back down the hallway, but not before shooting me a look that clearly said he didn’t believe me and this wasn’t over.

I sighed and turned my attention back to the mobile. “Are you planning to explain any time soon?”

“About lunch today...”

“Are you still coming?”

“That would probably be - unwise. Now that I think about it.”

“You can’t do this to me. You’ve got to give me something.”

“I can’t, Livvie. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands. I’ll get back in touch when I can tell you more.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me.”

“Don’t tell anyone about this discussion.”

“Don’t you _dare_ hang up on me.”

A quick glance at the touchscreen of my smartphone indicated he’d done just that. I smothered the impulse to phone him back just to start shouting again, then the impulse to destroy something, and finally decided to be productive and start getting dressed for work.

John was sitting on the foot of the bed when I entered the room, tying his shoes. I walked straight to the closet, hoping he’d allow me to ignore him. It didn’t work.

“Who was that?”

“My cousin. I told you that already.”

“Are you still meeting him for lunch?”

“No,” I answered shortly, aimlessly pushing hangers around without really seeing the clothes on them.

He came over and gently turned me to face him, placing his hands on my shoulders and rubbing soothing circles on my collarbones with his thumbs. “Mary, what’s going on?”

Grateful for his pervading calmness I let the tension bleed away, leaning forward to rest my forehead against his shoulder. “I don’t really know. And even if I did, I probably couldn’t tell you.”

His hands moved to my back. “Is it work related?” We both knew he didn’t mean my job at NSY.

I wound my hands around his waist. “No. I don’t know.”

“Text me if you find out more. I’ll leave work if you need me to, they can do without me for an afternoon.”

I hugged him, grateful for the security of his presence, then turned to the closet so I could actually get ready. “That probably won’t be necessary. But thank you.”

His lips brushed the back of my neck. “Alright. I’m off. Keep in touch today.”

I faced him so he could give me a proper kiss goodbye. “It depends on the workload, but I’ll do my best. If we’ve got a case…”

“Just let me know you’re okay.” A final kiss, then he grabbed his briefcase and left me to ponder just exactly who Sigerson was and what Martin had gotten involved with.

 

 

“I was thinking we could have a Christmas party this year.”

I looked up from the salad I was picking at. “I… what?”

“We didn’t really do much last year, did we? You had just gotten here, I was still dealing with losing Sherlock – I don’t think we even exchanged gifts, did we? We should have a get-together with a few of our friends this year.”

I started to zone out again. “Sure. Yeah, it might be fun.”

He dropped his fork into his plate with a loud _plink!_ “Mary, tell me what you’re thinking about.”

It took me a while to focus on his words, finally blinking at him slowly. “Nothing. Work. I’m tired, it’s been a long day.”

“No, you don’t get to use that excuse. That’s what you say whenever you don’t want to admit you’re not invincible.”

I scowled at him. “I don’t do that.”

He laughed, but there was a hint of bitterness in the sound. “Yeah, you do. C’mon, what’re you upset about? It’s that phone call this morning, isn’t it?”

I sighed, still frowning. “Yeah. It was just confusing.”

“Was it really from your cousin?”

“Yeah.” I smiled a little. “His family was pretty close to mine, so we spent a lot of time together growing up. Mycroft got both of us contracts with the… people we work for, he just decided to remain a contractor while I decided to become… a regular employee, I guess you’d say.”

John raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on my less-than-descriptive description of what we do. “What did he want?”

“He thought I was someone else.”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, brow furrowing in thought. “Who?”

“My old partner,” I replied with a frown. I gave up on the salad, dropping my fork and resting my head on my palm. “I don’t know what’s going on or why he phoned _me_ , but…” I paused. Without knowing who was involved, I had no idea when I would stray from sort-of classified (which John’s clearance covered) to really classified (definitely not covered). I sighed and waved my hand at him. “Don’t worry about it. A Christmas party?”

“You’ve decided this is one of those things I can’t know about.” His arms clenched tighter across his chest, signalling the shift from pensive to frustrated.

“I’ve decided there’s a chance one or both of us will be locked in a concrete underground cell if you know about it, yes. Who would we invite?”

“To the underground cell?”

“Don’t be facetious.”

“You’re using big words now. Means you’re being defensive.”

“Please, ‘facetious’ is hardly a big word.”

“Yes, everyone uses ‘facetious’ in casual conversation, I forgot.”

I scowled. “Are you finished?”

“Eat your salad and I might be.”

My eyebrows shot up into my bangs. “ _That’s_ what this is about? I’m not eating enough for you?”

“No, but it’s related.” He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I’m just worried about you. You’re not usually this distant.”

“But when I am, it’s for a good reason. I mean it John, if I say I can’t tell you then I _can’t_. You should understand that. There’s a reason your clearance is as high as it is.”

“Yes, and it means I’m not used to being left out of things.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I understand that, I really do. I’ll just need time to adjust.”

“Me too,” I admitted softly. “I’m used to living with other agents. I’m in a strange limbo right now – this is the closest to being _myself_ I’ve been able to get in years, but at the same time I can’t talk about stuff that I usually discuss over dinner. It’s different. I’ll slip up sometimes.”

“Okay. Good to know.” His mouth quirked at the corner. “So. Christmas party. Seems like a good time to make a certain announcement, don’t you think?”

I frowned for a moment, until I remembered the small velvet box tucked into the top drawer of the bed stand for safekeeping. My face cleared into a grin. “Yes, I think so.”

“Right.” He chuckled. “Still can’t believe you said yes.”

I blushed and picked up my fork. “Eat your dinner.”


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Well, this is… tidy.” Greg’s eyes skimmed over the inside of our flat while I took his coat. “Nice, but very _clean_.”

“We did meet in the Army,” John pointed out with a laugh. “What did you expect?”

“I can take those too,” I said, reaching for his bag of gifts.

“Right, thanks.” He handed it over while raising an eyebrow at John. “I’ve been in flats you both lived in before.”

“Yeah, and who was the common factor?” I laughed.

“Sherlock. Right, yeah.” He chuckled. “I like the tree.”

“I did that,” I replied with a grin. There was a small pile of gifts between me and John already underneath the small tree, onto which I began unloading Greg’s boxes. “John did the outside lights.”

“Yeah, saw those. They’re nice.”

John led Greg to the kitchen for drinks right as the doorbell went. “Got the door,” I called as I passed the kitchen on my way to answer it.

Mrs Hudson waited patiently in the icy drizzle on the other side. She burst into a grin when I opened the door. “Livvie! My goodness, dear, I haven’t seen you in ages.” She grasped my face in her hands, planting a kiss on my cheek. “You look older. And skinnier. I’m sure you’re skinnier. Are you eating enough?”

I laughed. “Yes, Mrs Hudson. Come on in, it’s freezing out there.”

“Yes, it’s been cold like this for weeks, hasn’t it? It’s working havoc on my hip.”

“I’m sure.” I ushered her into the sitting room. “I can take your coat if you want.”

“Of course dear, silly me.” She giggled, shrugging out of her jacket. “I told John he was welcome to hold this at Baker Street – it’s so lonely there, I can’t get anyone to take 221C and I can’t bear to let out B – but he said he’d rather do it here.”

“Yeah, I think John has a hard time going back,” I murmured. “He avoids that whole area as much as possible.”

“Well, the two of them were thick as thieves, weren’t they? I always thought… I understand, really I do, but I miss having him around. Such good company, he was. We used to…”

I nodded, tucking her gifts under the tree and letting her prattle on. Her voice was comforting, even if I didn’t absorb every word she said.

John and Greg emerged from the kitchen with drinks in hand. “Mrs Hudson,” John said warmly. “I thought I heard you out here.”

“John.” She wrapped him in a deep hug. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

“And you.” He came over and rested a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve met Mary?”

“Oh, is that what she’s calling herself these days? I can never keep track. I think she was Danielle when we met… weren’t you, dear? Or was is Carrie? You’ve gone through at least three names in the time I’ve known you.”

I rolled my eyes with a grin. “It was Danielle. That was in my early days, when I was still in training. Sherlock and I worked her husband’s case together, though he really did all the work.” I crossed my arms, narrowing my eyes her way in a teasing reprimand. “No mentioning my various identities once everyone else gets here. Mary, nothing else.”

“Yes, dear, I know.” She smiled and patted my hand. “Now. If one of you gentlemen wouldn’t mind showing me where I could find one of those glasses you’re holding?”

“Right this way,” Greg piped up from behind her.

She followed him to the kitchen, launching into a monologue about how she hardly saw him anymore either. John settled onto the sofa, looking down at where I still curled on the floor. “I didn’t know you knew her.”

“It really has been ages since I saw her last. Sherlock’s the one who developed a relationship with her, and he’s the one she stayed in touch with after our case closed.”

“She seems to know a lot about what you do.”

I laughed. “John, you’d be surprised at who she really is.”

He frowned. “Don’t tell me she’s part of this agency too.”

“No. But she’s not everything she seems. Hardly anyone is, if you think about it.”

“Mmm.” He sipped his drink. “Life would be easier if they were.”

“Yes. But much more boring.” The doorbell rang again. “I’ll get it.”

Bouncing on the other side of the door was a tall redhead in his forties, his pale cheeks sprinkled liberally with freckles and flushed with the cold. “Bill!”

“My God. That’s not Lieutenant Morstan?”

“Mary, Bill. Just Mary. Come on in, it’s freezing! How’ve you been?”

“Fantastic!” He wrapped his arm around the petite blonde he’d come with, ushering her inside with him. “I don’t think you’ve met Isabelle?”

“Mrs Murray?” I guessed. When she nodded shyly, I grinned. “Congratulations, both of you.”

“Thanks,” he boomed. “You look so different with dark hair! I like it better, though. You’re too pale to be a blonde.”

“Gee thanks,” I giggled. Bill’s forthright attitude had always amused me, his bold honesty about anyone and everyone he met making for some hilarious conversations about superior officers in the mess tent. “John’s gonna be glad to see you.”

John confirmed as we rounded the corner, shouting, “Murray!” and practically wringing the other man’s hand off. “God, it’s been ages.”

“Doc!” Bill replied, clapping him enthusiastically on his uninjured shoulder. “How you doing, old man?”

“Oi, I’m three years younger than you,” John laughed. I went to get the door (again) while they finished having their reunion.

This time it was Mike and Clarissa Stamford who shivered on the doorstep. “Sorry Charlie couldn’t make it,” Mike said, referencing his son. “He was invited to Sussex with a friend for the holidays.”

“That’s fine. We’re glad you two could come.” I took Clarissa’s coat and placed it on the rack. “We’re in the sitting room right now. Drinks and food are in the kitchen, if you want.”

“Mike! Great to see you,” John’s voice echoed from the sitting room as I spun on my heel to respond to yet another ring on the bell. I should have put up a sign to just come in, I thought as I swung the door open.

And proceeded to gaze wide-eyed at the woman on the other side. “Dr Hooper?”

She gathered her plaid jacket further around her shoulders, fidgeting with the edge. “John… John invited me. He didn’t tell you?”

“Right, of course.” He had mentioned it in passing, now that I thought about it. “Um – sorry, I’m being rude. Come on in.”

“This flat is nice,” she murmured.

“Thanks.” I reached for her coat and scarf. “Can I take those from you?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She hastily shrugged out of her coverings. “The last one of these I went to was John and Sherlock’s. Their only Christmas together.”

I hmm-ed, feeling awkward, as I hung her things with everyone else’s. “You work with Sherlock much?”

“Yeah.”

When she didn’t elaborate, I tried prompting. “Yard cases?”

“Mostly.” She adjusted the neckline of her dress with anxious fingers and moved past me into the sitting room. “John, hi!”

I frowned, disconcerted by her short replies. When we’d met before she was prone to nervous chattering that only became succinct in relation to the case. Sudden brevity of conversation was outside her norm.

Or maybe I was paranoid and she just didn’t know me that well, I reflected as I tailed her back to the party. The case had involved working around people she was comfortable with, and she certainly wasn’t having problems chatting with Greg now. It was just me, then. I shook my head with a sigh and moved to the kitchen. Maybe a good drink would help soothe my nerves.

 

 

We were in the middle of our gift exchange a little over an hour later when I heard the faint chirping of my text alert. I quietly excused myself from the room, concerned as to who might be trying to contact me on Christmas Eve and hoping fervently it had nothing to do with either of my jobs. The cheery message underneath Rose’s name prompted a sigh of relief to brush past my lips.

**Merry Christmas!**

_Merry Christmas to you!_

**Enjoying the holiday?**

_I’m supposed to be hosting a party right now. Fiancée is doing all the work though._

**Real fiancée? Or work fiancée?**

_Real?_

**Is that a question?**

_Real. Real fiancée. I’m actually getting married._

**Really. That’s… news. Congratulations :)**

_Yeah. Thanks :)_

**And work…?**

_… not sure. What are you doing for Christmas?_

**Working in Scotland. Probably won’t celebrate, I’m cleaning up a mess right now. It’s /really/ messy.**

“Mary? Everything alright?” John knocked on the bedroom door, poking his head in and staring at me where I perched on the bed.

“Yeah. Sorry, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“You don’t need anything?”

“Nope.” I smiled at him. “Just chatting with a friend.”

“Wish Rose a Merry Christmas from me,” he grinned.

“Will do. I promise I’m almost done here.” As he shut the door, my attention returned to my phone.

_This mess wouldn’t have anything to do with a friend of yours?_

**Actually, it does. Just a guess?**

_I got a strange phone call a couple weeks ago. Figured they might be related. Scotland and all._

**Everything okay? You’re not worried?**

_Everything’s fine. Someone thought I was you. I guess he figured out who he was supposed to be contacting, if you’re there._

**Scrappy little pilot? Yeah, he’s here.**

_You wouldn’t happen to know why your friend’s files are locked, would you? I can’t access them at all._

**I might know. Don’t think I can say anything though.**

I hissed in frustration. _Okay, thanks. BTW, fiancée says Merry Christmas._

**Aw, he sounds nice. Enjoy your party.**

_Try not to get yourself killed, k? Would put a bit of a damper on the holiday for me._

**Same for you. I’ll text in a week or so, hopefully this’ll be cleaned up by then.**

_I’ll hold you to that._

“You in here?” This time it was Greg tapping on the door. I smiled at him, trying to push aside my concerns for the sake of the guests.

“Yeah. Sorry I’m taking so long. I’m on my way out now, I promise.”

He tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “John sent me back to tell you to bring the box. Not sure what that’s supposed to mean.”

I giggled and reached for the top drawer of the night stand. “What it says on the tin, Greg.” The small velvet box appeared in the palm of my hand for him to see.

His eyes widened before crinkling proudly at me. “That’s… congratulations, sweetheart. C’mere.”

I beamed and let him lift me into a hug. “Thanks,” I murmured into his shoulder.

“How long?”

“Since October. We didn’t really know when would be a good time to tell everyone.”

“I’m glad for you, I really am. God knows you deserve this.”

I pulled back, keeping my wrists wrapped around his neck and letting his hands linger on my back in a sudden moment of vulnerability. “And you think it’ll be okay?”

“Of course. John’s a good man. I know how happy you two make each other.” He tugged me close again. “But you let me know if he buggers everything up. I’ll put him straight.”

I laughed. “Good to know you’re filling in for my father.”

“Someone’s got to, eh? Mycroft won’t, that’s for sure.”

I rolled my eyes. “Can we not bring him up right now? Come on, they’re probably waiting for us.”

 

 

As soon as we wandered back into the sitting room, John’s eyes darted between the two of us. “You told him?”

“Took you bloody long enough,” Greg answered.

Mrs Hudson’s hand came up to rest on John’s elbow, drawing his attention. “Told him what, dear?”

He beamed down at her for a moment, his cobalt eyes twinkling, before extending a hand to me. “Mary?”

“So much ceremony,” I grumbled good-naturedly, picking my way around the hodgepodge of furniture we’d set up for our guests so I could stand beside him in front of the tree. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he quipped.

I slipped the ring box into his fingers. “Planning to propose all over again?” I murmured.

“You mean for real? Since, you know, you left before I actually could,” he teased.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope.” He grinned. “So, do you want me to get down on one knee?”

I raised my eyebrows, horrified at the idea of a public proposal. “Please don’t.”

He laughed. “That’s what I thought.” He used his thumb to pop open the box, extracting the ring and sliding it onto my left hand before twining his fingers with mine. “Well. Suppose that was fairly self-explanatory, but I’ll say it anyway.” A ripple of laughter spread around the room. “Mary and I are engaged.”

Murmurs of congratulations floated together in an unintelligible conglomeration of voices. The men within arm’s reach clapped John on the back or squeezed my shoulder, the women cooed happily… it was predictable, and as much as I appreciated their support I had to suppress the part of me that wanted to roll my eyes and be done with it. My attention faded in and out as I let their words wash over me, their faces blending together under my wandering gaze.

But then one face stuck out, unassuming and nearly hidden at the back of the group, poorly disguised discomfort lurking beneath a congratulatory smile. I stared at the pathologist where she hovered behind the throng of guests. What was it about her that irked me?

Her eyes flicked away from John, meeting mine for a tense moment. Her lips pulled into a nervous smile and she took a step forward, hovering indecisively on the balls of her feet.

John’s hand slid up my arm and curled around my elbow, breaking my focus from Molly. “You alright?”

“Me? Yeah, fine.”

“You were looking very intense there.”

I smiled, hoping it looked more sincere than it felt. “Just thinking.”

Molly approached then, weaving through the crowd to wrap an arm around John’s shoulders. “Congratulations,” she murmured. “I’m sure he’ll be happy for you.”

“Nah, he’d probably explain to me in detail all the disastrous ways my marriage would end. But thanks,” John responded with a rueful chuckle.

I frowned – something about her statement was off, I just couldn’t put a finger on what – but before I could pursue the feeling further, Murray draped his lanky frame around me. “Congrats, kiddo,” he boomed. “I always said you’n doc would get together, didn’t I?”

“Ugh, get off,” I laughed, pushing at his chest. “Heavy git. You always said everyone would get together with John at some point.”

“For good reason,” he guffawed.

John turned away from Clarissa Stamford to launch a punch at his arm. “Shuddup, Murray.”

“Aw, you’re blushing,” I teased.

“You too,” he directed at me. I smirked and kissed his cheek.

“I feel like there’s a story there,” Mike piped up. John glared at him, but Murray’s resonant voice drowned out any protests he might have made.

“An entire tour’s worth!” Laughter rang out from the group, and it didn’t take long for everyone to settle back onto their various pieces of furniture to listen to Murray’s (highly embellished) tales of serving with John. Guests soon began drifting away, the clock slowly demanding more and more of our little party until it was just me and John and a plethora of dishware in varying states of emptiness.

“Dump ‘em in the sink?” he asked.

I surveyed the room, my eyes burning with exhaustion. “Dump ‘em in the sink.”

Fifteen minutes and a mound of dishes later, we finally managed to fall into bed and were asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and reviews are always welcome, I love to hear what you think! Thanks to everyone who has left comments/kudos so far :)


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally get to put this up! Sorry for the long wait on this, I got all caught up to myself. Hit a writing streak today though :) I also managed to get the next couple of chapters completely written, so they should be up over the next few weeks. Read and review, I love to hear from you!

“… and I think Mike and Clarissa should go here.” I scribbled their names into the seating plan. “What do you think?”

John peered over my shoulder. “Then you’ll have to move Craig, he and Mike never got on.”

“I thought Mike got on with everyone. Hmm… There’s a spot next to Diana…”

“She and Craig dated.”

I huffed. “Well, maybe Craig can sit in a chair by himself in the back of the room. It’ll solve all of our problems.”

John laughed. “Yeah, that’s probably the best bet.”

I put Craig’s name back on the list of people to be seated and moved on to the next couple. “Hey, have you talked to Greg yet?”

“Not yet.” John turned back to his tablecloth samples. “Blue, do you think? To match the bridesmaid’s dresses?”

I turned to look at the fabric square he held up, and raised an eyebrow. “John, that’s teal. The dresses are navy. And honestly, I don’t think they should match the tablecloths.”

He dropped against the back of his chair with a heavy sigh, scrubbing his hand over his eyes. “I’m going cross-eyed.”

“I told you I can do it if you want.”

He stood and came behind me, rolling his hands over my shoulders. “No, I want to be involved. Just maybe not something to do with colours.”

“Go talk to Greg. I can’t believe you haven’t done that yet.”

He sighed heavily and leaned against the table. “Is it silly that I’m waiting for Sherlock to come back?”

I jolted at Sherlock’s name, then realised the question wasn’t meant to be literal. With a soft exhale, I dropped my pencil to the table. “Not at all.”

He looked down at me. “I know he won’t. But I can’t help wanting him to be there.”

I took his hand, rubbing my fingers across his. “I know. I do too.”

His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “I’ll go talk to Greg.”

As he walked out the door, my mind trailed back to the phone conversation with Martin. Maybe we could push the wedding back a few months. My knee was so much better now, I knew I could – well, probably – pass a physical. I could go back into the field, look for Sherlock…

I dropped my forehead against the table. What was I doing? Sherlock was _dead_. A combination of exhaustion and wishful thinking were slowly driving me insane. No, I needed to just focus on the wedding. _My_ wedding. I was getting married in a month, and it was going to be wonderful.

 

 

 

John returned from his conversation with Greg with a huge grin on his face. “Really wish I’d done that sooner.”

I smiled and tilted my head up to accept his kiss. “It went well, then?”

He laughed. “Yeah. He was angry at first, thought we weren’t inviting him because he hadn’t gotten his notice yet.”

“What happened when you told him?”

“He shook my hand so hard, I think he bruised me,” John chuckled wryly, holding his hand out for me to inspect. “Either my hand or my shoulder, or both. I’m not sure.”

“Aw, poor thing,” I crooned. “Here, I’ll make it better.” I pressed a kiss to the proffered palm.

“I think he may have gotten my face too,” John winked.

I stood and planted a kiss on his forehead. “There. I’m glad you got that sorted, it wouldn’t be much of a wedding without a best man.”

“Says the woman who still hasn’t decided on a maid of honour.”

I frowned. “I know. I don’t know what to do, though. The only people I’d want to do it are either dead, out of the country, or think I’m dead.”

“What about family? Cousins or anyone?”

“Fall into the ‘think I’m dead’ or ‘out of the country’ category.” I sighed. “I’ll ask Myc if I can use one of his assistants for the day. It’ll make him happy to have the extra security on me anyway. Now, I’ve only got a couple people left to fit on here, and I wanted your input because you know them better than I do.”

“Right, yeah.” He pulled out one of the wooden chairs and plopped into it. “I’ll look this over if you want to make some tea.”

“That’s where I was going. Are you hungry?”

“Nope, Greg insisted on taking me to lunch.”

“That’s what took you so long.” I flipped the switch on the kettle and waited for the water to boil.

“Yeah.” He hummed, looking over the seating chart. “I think Craig can go at this third table. That’s mostly your friends, isn’t it?”

“It’s the entirety of my friends. He’ll have fun there.”

John groaned but scratched Craig into place. “So all that’s left is Bill and Isabelle, right?”

“And Coleen from the surgery, yeah.”

“The Murrays can go at Diana’s table.”

“That’s what I was thinking, but I wanted to double check with you.” I reached for two mugs. “I thought Coleen could sit at the second table to the left?”

John hummed as he skimmed it over. “Yeah, that’ll work. So, that’s… hang on. Molly’s not coming?”

“Did you invite her?”

“Of course I invited Molly.” He looked at the list of attending guests more closely. “Mycroft isn’t on here, either.”

“Mycroft doesn’t do weddings.”

“I get the feeling he’d go to yours.”

“If I asked. And begged, and demanded. I think maybe by the time I got to bargaining he’d start to consider it.” The kettle clicked, and I reached out to pour steaming water into the prepared cups. “There are too many people at weddings. If he can’t talk at them through a telephone or make someone else deal with them, Mycroft doesn’t like people.”

“You should still invite him. I invited Harry, didn’t I? And that’s a disaster waiting to happen.” He reached for the tea I handed to him, and I sat down in the chair beside his. “You haven’t heard from Molly at all?”

I shook my head and blew on my tea. “No. Why don’t you phone her? Maybe she didn’t get the invitation.”

“Mike said he’d make sure she got it,” he muttered, reaching for his mobile.

“Maybe it got lost in her mail or something,” I responded.

We sat in silence for a long moment while he listened to the phone ring. “Hi Molly, it’s John. We haven’t heard from you about the wedding, I just wanted to be sure you received your invitation and weren’t planning to attend. Please phone back ASAP, we need your RSVP if you are going to come. Thanks.” He set his mobile on the table with a soft click. “Voicemail.”

“How do you know her?” I asked over the top of my cup. “Through Sherlock?”

He nodded. “He preferred to work with her because she was the easiest to manipulate, at least at first. I think after a while he really cared about her in his own way – though with him it was always hard to tell.”

“So you worked with her a lot?”

He cocked his head, staring at me thoughtfully. “You’re not jealous, are you? I promise, we were _never_ like that.”

“No, of course not,” I laughed. “I was just curious, that’s all. You seem so concerned about her being able to come. Not just to the wedding, either – you made sure she was at the Christmas party, you made plans to meet her for coffee the other day… I don’t mind, I promise, I just think it’s interesting.”

He sighed and laced his hands together. “I cut her out, after – after. And then seeing her when I worked that case, I realised I hadn’t spoken to her in over a year, and I felt bad for that. It’s not fair to her. It’s not her fault that she was on duty when they brought his body in, I shouldn’t blame her for having to be the one to declare him dead. Guess I’m trying to make up for it now.”

“ _She’s_ the one who declared him? Isn’t that a conflict of interest or something?”

“Rules always got a little fuzzy around him, didn’t they? I don’t know, all I know is that it was her signature on the certificate. It’s one of the few clear things I remember from that day.”

His phone vibrated against the table then, the screen lighting up with her name. He smiled and lifted it to his face. “Molly, hi.”

I stood and left the kitchen, eyes glazed over in thought. Molly Hooper. Sweet, unassuming Molly Hooper. The woman I couldn’t parse out. What did she know?


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may not be its best, but I'm tired of procrastinating this one, so here you go! Hoping to get next one up by Friday, since it's mostly written and proofread already. Enjoy! Reviews are totally welcome anytime!

I woke up on the morning of January 26th curled on the bed in Mycroft’s guest bedroom with someone’s fingers carding through my tangled curls. For a moment I kept my eyes shut, savouring the sensation, until finally I was aware enough to wonder exactly who the fingers belonged to. I rolled over, squinting against the white light filtering in through the window, and nearly squashed my nose against the person’s leg. With an irritated moan, I forced myself into a sitting position.

The woman perched on the corner of my bed smiled at me. “Morning.”

“Mummy!” I threw my arms around her neck. With a low chuckle, she hugged me back. “What are you doing here?”

“Mycroft said I’d find you here. I wanted to see you, especially since I won’t be allowed to speak to you at the ceremony later.”

I frowned and pulled back, skimming my eyes over her. She looked wonderful, considering how long it had been since I’d last seen her. A few more lines on her face, and her hair had progressed from grey to white, but still healthy. “I should have spoken to you more.”

“Nonsense. We all knew you wouldn’t be able to when you took that job.” She squeezed my arm. “Mycroft keeps me updated. I’m just glad you enjoy what you do.”

I leaned forward to hug her again. “I missed you.”

“And I you. I wish your father was able to see you now, he’d be so proud of you.”

“He wouldn’t have been able to give me away.”

“I know. But he’d be happy you even found anybody. I certainly am. Now,” she gently pulled me away from her neck so she could look me in the eye, “up and at ‘em, sweetheart.”

I took a deep breath and looked over to the wardrobe, where a long ivory dress hung waiting. “Let’s do this.”

She laughed, her eyes crinkling, and patted my leg. “Always so dramatic, love.”

 

 

Wrapped in my dressing gown, hair dripping down my back and face still flushed from the hot shower, I rapped two knuckles against the heavy wood door. “Myc?”

“Come in.”

I pushed the door open to reveal him lounging in a chair, legs extended in front of him and crossed at the ankles, fingers wrapped around a glass containing something that smelled like orange juice. I raised an eyebrow. “What are you wearing?”

“A tracksuit,” he sniffed. “Traditionally worn when one is planning to exercise.”

“Since when do you exercise?”

“Every morning,” he replied blandly.

“Except for today, of course,” I retorted, crossing my arms and directing a look of sheer disapproval his way.

The unfortunate fact about learning expressions from someone is their immunity to those expressions. His lips thinned, his face unamused, but he was otherwise unaffected. “Why should today be any different?”

“You are not missing my wedding so you can _exercise._ ”

His face twisted into a scowl. “Is there a reason you are here?”

“Mummy wanted me to ask if you were joining us for breakfast.”

“If I must.”

“Good.” I spun on my heel and exited the room. “Your tuxedo is in your closet, for when you try to sneak into the church without my noticing,” I tossed over my shoulder before slamming the door behind me.

 

 

We’d barely finished eating when a knock sounded from the front door. My hand moved automatically for my waist sheath, finding instead the silky fabric of my dressing gown. Mycroft eyed the movement while his butler crossed behind him to answer the door. “Relax. This house is secure.”

“Mycroft, I’ve spent the better part of seven years being pursued by people who would be thrilled to kill me. Pardon me for being a little jumpy.”

“I think your nerves are tense for another reason,” Mummy commented. “It’s perfectly natural to be nervous, darling.”

“A Ms Gold to see Ms Morstan,” the butler announced with a nod to Mycroft. “I asked her to wait in the foyer.”

I was on my feet before he finished speaking, sprinting for the tiled entry to Myc’s home. A young woman stood there, her feet carrying her in a slow circle as she examined the walls. Flaxen curls cascaded down over a familiar set of shoulders. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.

She spun on the ball of her foot, face spreading into a grin when she saw me. “It’s good to see you too.”

“I’m serious. Why are you here?”

“You didn’t think I was going to miss your _wedding_ , did you?”

“What about that mess in Scotland?”

She waved a careless hand. “Done. Mostly, anyway. James – sorry, Sigerson – is wrapping things up. I’m supposed to be moving to Nice next, but there was something here I wanted to check anyway, so… here I am.” She spread her arms wide, like she was presenting herself. “Sorry I didn’t RSVP sooner.”

I eyed her for a moment before pulling her into a brief hug. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“It should be fine,” she murmured, returning to seriousness. “Tiger’s underground. We haven’t heard anything in months.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“He’s getting nervous. America’s gone now. I expect he’s trying to figure out what his next move is, especially since he can’t figure out where we are. Sigerson insists on changing identities each time we move now, ‘cause he had a scare in Vegas. It’s working, though. I highly doubt anyone even knows or cares that I’m here.”

“What name?”

“Rosalie Gold.”

I raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. She still frowned. “Don’t give me that. It’s different enough.”

I rolled my eyes. “This breaks so many regulations…”

“I’ve embraced it.” She shrugged. “Sigerson isn’t much for following rules. I will say, he’s much more efficient than we ever were.”

“Gee, thanks.” I pulled the dressing gown tighter around myself. “There’s still breakfast on the table if you’re hungry.”

 

 

 

“Ma’am?”

I glanced over to the bedroom door, fingers still fumbling at a bobby pin. “Yeah?”

“Telephone for you, ma’am.”

The pin received a final shove before I stood to retrieve the phone from the servant’s hand. “Thank you.” I lifted it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Mary.”

“John? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, really. Just – did you sneak a name on the guest list at the last minute?”

I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder, returning to the vanity so I could continue getting ready while we talked. “Nnnooo? What name?”

“Rosalie Gold?”

I raised an eyebrow at Rose, who’d settled cross-legged on the bed. “You hacked my guest-list?” I hissed.

She shrugged, unapologetic. “It wasn’t that difficult. You should really change your security key.”

I rolled my eyes and returned my attention to the phone. “Don’t worry about it, John. Leave her on there.”

“Do I want to know?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“Right.”

“Any other concerns?”

“You mean am I second-guessing the decision to tie myself to you forever?”

I raised an eyebrow, only mostly convinced that he was teasing. “…are you?”

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I did not.”

“Are finished flirting?” Rose interrupted. “I’m choking on the cute from only one side of this conversation.”

I stuck my tongue out at her. “I’m getting complaints from the peanut gallery and I need to finish my hair. I’ll see you later.”

“Love you.”

 

 

 

“Mike, thanks so much for coming.”

“Congratulations, you two.”

“Colleen, so glad you could make it.”

“It was a beautiful ceremony.”

“Bill, Isabelle!”

“I love that dress. The design is so flattering on you.”

“Congratulations, Morstan. Watson.”

“How many more?” I finally whispered to John.

He chuckled. “Losing patience?”

Before I could reply, I ended up with a faceful of brown wig. “I’m so glad for you, really.”

“Thanks, Rose,” I murmured, returning her hug. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She pulled away, prompting John to extend his hand to her. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”

“Rosalie Gold,” she started, but I cut her off.

“John, this is Rose.”

His eyes widened in recognition. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

She gripped his hand tight for a moment, drawing him close to her face so she could murmur to him without being overheard by the guest behind her. “She’s precious. Don’t you dare lose that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He squeezed her hand again before releasing it to twine his fingers with mine.

“Rose, don’t be a drama queen,” I scolded, thoroughly uncomfortable with this manifestation of her protective streak. “You’re holding up the line.”

“Always the pragmatist,” she teased, but moved into the reception hall. I glanced down the line – five more guests to go. I took a bracing breath and grinned at John’s cousin.

“Craig, so glad you could make it!”

 

 

“Greg, promise you won’t embarrass me too much,” John joked across the table.

Greg laughed and reached for his glass. “That’s the whole fun, isn’t it?”

“Please tell me you’ll tell the story of the penguin case,” I said. “I’ve only heard the beginning, but it was hysterical.”

“Of course I’m telling the penguin case!”

“Don’t you dare!” John interjected.

Greg and I laughed again as I clasped John’s hand. The conversation continued, and it wasn’t long before someone gained silence and introduced Greg as the best man.

To be honest, most of the speech washed over me in a giddy wave. I remember a lot of laughter, a few tears. He mentioned Sherlock once, only once, simply saying he wished he could have been passed over in favour of John’s true best friend, but it brought a moment of silence upon the crowd. I squeezed John’s fingers where they rested beneath mine and gave him a sad smile, brushing away the brief thought that Sherlock could have been here if I was strong enough to go looking for him.

The speech ended with a beautiful toast to our future. A strong arm around my waist pulled me close to John’s side as everyone raised their glasses. I couldn’t help but grin at the crowd there to celebrate the two of us. Two years previously I could never have imagined knowing so many people, much less having them all gather in my honour. All the worries which had plagued me for the last few months disappeared, even if only for the moment, buried beneath good wishes and gratitude.


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, action's picking up again! Enjoy!

I rolled onto my side, tucking my head into John’s shoulder. “I think the other guests heard us five floors away.”

“Forget the other guests, I’m pretty sure Mrs Hudson heard us.”

I shoved the heel of my palm into the taut skin across his ribs. “Shut up, I wasn’t _that_ loud.”

He leaned down to press a kiss to the top of my head. “I was talking about me.”

My face tilted up to meet him for another kiss. “Well, in that case, I agree wholeheartedly,” I grinned against his lips.

“And you better be damn bloody proud of it,” he growled.

I smirked and pulled the sheets further up around my shoulders. “Oh, I’m just getting started.”

He slid down so our noses were practically touching, tilting his head forward until our foreheads met. “Give me some time, yeah? I’m not as young as I used to be.”

I giggled and kissed him again, and was about to make another snarky comeback when my phone chirped from the chair across the room. “Hold that thought.”

He sat up as I swung my legs out of bed. “Can’t it wait? You’re on your honeymoon, it can’t be that important.”

I eyed the window briefly, decided the sheer coverings were enough to ensure privacy, and padded across the room without further thought to my nudity. “You said you needed time.”

“Yeah, that’s not what I meant.” He slid out of bed and followed me across the luxuriant carpet.  

“You said it,” I retorted, retrieving the mobile from the arm of the chair. His arms twined around my waist, pulling me close and distracting me from the phone before I could get a glimpse of the screen. Soft kisses made their way down my cheek and along my jaw.

“Come back to bed,” he murmured. “It’ll still be there in the morning.”

The phone in my hands chirped again. “I just want to see who it is.”

A final peck to the base of my neck, and he withdrew. “Some things never change.”

“Nor do you want them to.”

He chuckled. “Of course not. Though I may need to bribe Greg not to text you on evenings or weekends.”

A third text popped up on the screen, drawing my attention in time to read it before it faded back to black. “Shit.”

He’d been reclining back into the pillows, but now jolted upright again. “That doesn’t sound good.”

My fingers skimmed across the screen, unlocking it so I could read the missed messages. All three had the same single word crying back at me beneath Rose’s name. I sent a brief reply to let her know I’d seen, then tossed the phone to John as I scrambled across the room for our bags. “Speed dial eight, now.”

At the tone of my voice, his shoulders locked back into captain posture, everything down to the lines in his face reverting instinctively to the military. “Right. Who am I phoning?” he asked, his hands already in motion.

“Myc’s emergency line.” I extracted my laptop from my carryon bag and slammed it open, carrying it over so I could perch with it in the chair.

John frowned. “He’s not answering.” The mobile pinged in his hands. He stood to show it to me, but I waved at him to just read it off. “’999.’”

“ _Shit._ ”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she did something stupid and it went wrong, and now she needs agency interference. Try Mycroft again.”

His fingers tapped at the screen. “What’s this first thing she sent you? ‘Sun?’”

“It’s a panic word. Just lets me know there’s something wrong. Did you place the call?” I opened the program allowing me access to surveillance activity, my fingers jittering over the keyboard while I waited for it to load.

“Yeah, hang on.   It’s still ringing.”

“There’s supposed to be someone on that line at all times,” I snarled. “God, you’d think someone as powerful as him could have a competent staff.”

Apparently someone picked up, because John’s next words were directed at the mobile. “Hello? Mycroft?... Yes, this is John Watson, I need to speak to… well, put him on. Yes, it’s an emergency.” He scowled at the phone, tapping his fingers impatiently. His eyes landed back on me. “Why would I phone an emergency line if it wasn’t an emergency?” he muttered.

I rolled my eyes. “I told you – incompetent.” Our internet chat program slid a window up in the corner of the screen, informing me that **goldn.rose** ’s mobile app was connected, and I breathed out a minute sigh of relief. At least she still had her phone with her.

A muffled voice rumbled through the speaker, drawing his attention back to the mobile. “Mycroft? No, she’s fine.” His eyes flicked to me uncertainly and I held my hand out. I couldn’t do anything until I had a location, and I’d be able to tell Myc more than John could. He gratefully set the mobile in my palm and I lifted it to my face.

“I received a distress message. I need at least one retrieval team from the London office on standby.”

“I need more details than that.”

“I know, I’m working on it. I don’t know how much communication ability she has.”

He spoke in urgent tones to his assistant. “Notify the agency to mobilise a London team and standby for more information.”

While he was giving instructions, a chat window popped up on my screen with a string of numbers that I quickly translated into coordinates. I tapped them into the surveillance program with quick, brusque strokes. “The hell is she doing in Southminster?”

“Did she communicate?”

“Just coordinates… she’s in Southminster. That’s all the way down in Essex. I don’t think we have a team down there right now.” I tilted my head to catch the phone between my ear and shoulder, leaving both hands free to slam a response back to her.

**[02:12] Vi_Emer: You’ve got to give me more details. I need an address, and preferably how many teams you’ll need.**

“Anything else?”

“ _I’m working on it_.”

I waited in tense silence for a long moment, rolling my fingers along the edge of the keyboard, releasing my nerves in a sharp _tatatata_ against the hard plastic casing. Finally the computer beeped with a notification.

**[02:16] goldn.rose:** **idk**

**[02:16] Vi_Emer: Is GPS enabled on your phone?**

**[02:18] goldn.rose: yes**

“Myc, her GPS is on. I’m going to try tracing her through that so we at least have an address.”

“Time is of the essence, especially if transportation is necessary.”

“I know. Give me a few minutes to get an exact location,” I replied, typing her number into the tracking function of the surveillance program. “And get that team in motion, they need to leave now. We can give them the address en route.”

“Is there anything I can do?” John murmured, leaning over my shoulder.

I shook my head, looking up at him where he stood over me. “Sorry, but no. I really should’ve sent you from the room.”

He rubbed a hand soothingly along my back. “Like I would have let you.”

I chuckled. “Why do you think I didn’t even try?”

The quiet processing of the computer suddenly broke into steady beeping, signalling successful location of her mobile. “Got it!”

“Team is en route now. What is the address?”

“Out in the middle of nowhere. Looks like a farm house of some sort.”

“Can you send me the data?”

I took a screenshot of the map, attaching it to an email from my secure account. “I just sent it to you.”

**[02:34] Vi_Emer: Team is on its way, but they’re coming from London. Hang in there. At least another hour.**

**[02:35] goldn.rose: idiot left I have a couple min to myself. Ind w me. Being stupid but what else is new. Will try to keep us alive for another hour.**

“Myc, make sure they know she has an independent with her.”

“Noted. Do we know who we are dealing with?”

**[02:35] Vi_Emer: Who has you?**

**[02:36] goldn.rose: T**

“Aw, Rose,” I moaned. “Why would you _do_ that?”

“She engaged with the direct target,” Mycroft guessed.

“Without having a secure line of backup,” I finished. “She _knows_ better.”

“Does the independent?”

“Probably, but there’s a reason he’s independent, isn’t there?” I rolled my fingers along the computer again. “Damn.”

“Excessive use of profanity will not improve the situation,” Mycroft scolded.

“Shut up, Mycroft. It makes me feel better.”

Several long minutes dragged by without any further communication. I fought the instinct to stand and pace away my anxieties for fear of missing something if I left the computer. John’s fingers crept across my shoulder, kneading at the tense muscles there. “I wish I could do something to help,” he said.

“Actually, if you could get me my dressing gown? I just don’t want to leave the laptop right now.”

He smiled. “Of course. It’s in your suitcase?”

I nodded, my attention already back on the inactive screen in my lap. “I always hate this part,” I murmured. “It was the worst thing about being confined to surveillance: I couldn’t be there to help her if things went wrong. This is even worse, because I’m so remote.”

John emerged from the suitcase with a handful of white silky fabric, hanging it over his arm on his way back across the room. “At least she’s back in Europe. Imagine trying to coordinate this if she was still across the pond.”

**[02:45] goldn.rose: get me out too much ego in one room**

**[02:46] Vi_Emer: Hang in there**

**[02:48] goldn.rose: hes monologuing**

**[02:49] Vi_Emer: Seriously?**

John draped the dressing gown over my shoulders, leaning in closer so he could read our discussion. “This guy thinks he’s some fictional villain?”

“Apparently.” I pulled the cloth tighter around my body and slipped my arms into the sleeves. “Not that I’m surprised. He strikes me as the type.”

He returned to the suitcase, shrugging into an old t-shirt and boxers. “Any relation to Moriarty, then?”

I blinked and pressed my lips into a thin line, tucking the mobile against my leg and dropping my voice so Mycroft wouldn’t hear anything. “Connected.”

His eyes widened. “I wasn’t serious.”

I stared at him. “I am. I can’t say anything else.”

The computer beeped with another message, pulling my focus back to the screen.

**[02:53] goldn.rose: 104 CODE 104**

“Wonderful. As if this wasn’t already complicated enough,” I cried, already pounding a response back at her.

**[02:53] Vi_Emer: Do you have an id?**

**[02:54] goldn.rose: dr**

**[02:55] Vi_Emer: ????**

**[02:57] neg**

“Damn!” I shoved the laptop into John’s startled hands, suppressing further expletives with a loud growl, and stood to pace the room. The mobile came back up to press against my ear. “Mycroft, we have a threatened civilian. A doctor.”

“That describes thousands of people, including the man currently in the room with you. Is there a name, a country, anything?”

I glanced briefly at John, who watched me with concern. “Negative.”

“Then I cannot be of assistance.”

“What bloody use are you?” I shouted at the phone. “I thought you were supposed to be all-powerful. What good are you if you can’t even find a threatened civilian?”

“You’re being impractical. Dozens of civilians are threatened by this man on a daily basis, that’s why you’re pursuing him. Don’t let emotions cloud your judgement.”

Before I could start swearing again, John reached over and extracted the mobile from my death grip. “Mary, give it.” I glared at him for a moment before relinquishing it to his hands. He lifted it to his ear, still balancing the laptop on his other hand. “Mycroft, please don’t antagonise my wife.” His eyes flicked in my direction. Despite all my tension and frustration, a tiny smile quirked the corner of my lips at his words. He grinned in triumph. “Yes, I know. She should be a touch more reasonable now. Try not to be yourself and make it worse again.” He handed the mobile back to me, rubbing his fingers over my wrist. “It’s not his fault, love.”

“He’s still a pain in the arse,” I retorted.

“Agreed.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to reach the state of pragmatic impartiality I’d perfected for my work in the field. Becoming emotionally involved would only impair my decision making, a lesson they’d drilled into our heads from day one of training. By the time my lids snapped back open I’d managed to retreat behind a long-standing emotional wall. “Right,” I told Mycroft. “Stay on the line, I’m going to see what other information I can gather.” Without waiting for him to respond, I dropped the hand holding my mobile away from my ear, letting it swing by my side while I paced in front of the window. I let my eyes drift shut again, this time to access my mental files on Subject Tiger. They were vast, compiled across years of chasing the man and gathering data on him, and the chances of figuring out who was being threatened were slim, but it was worth the try.  

Vaguely I was aware of John in the background, still perched on the arm of the chair with the laptop balanced in his lap, but as I sank further into my head that awareness drew further away until it was only a faint shadow in the back of my mind. Immense filing cabinets now captured the forefront of my attention. I contemplated them for a moment, wondering where to start. The most recent information made the most sense, though there was very little for the last year and half, since I’d stopped actively working the case. The importance of the civilian was also in question. Was it someone who had been targeted from the beginning, or just a passing casualty in some larger scheme of the colonel’s? Were they connected to the independent in some way? If so, I was at even more of a dead end.

The beeping of an incoming chat message broke rudely through my thoughts, dragging me back to the hotel room. I spun in response to the sound at the same moment that John spoke.

“Mary…”

He stood to bring the computer to me where I perched on the corner of the bed.

Crossed in front of the window while rotating the screen in my direction.

And then all hell broke loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on tumblr: hastabeclever.tumblr.com :)


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have any excuse on the tardiness of this one other than I was feeling insecure about it and so I kept putting it off. Sorry to have left that cliffhanger so long.... As always, enjoy!

One minute I was turning towards the perplexed sound of John’s voice; the next moment I was ducking away from the shattering window behind me, mind flipping fully into field mode as I scrambled for cover behind the bed.

“Shots fired, I repeat, shots fired!” I shouted into the mobile still miraculously clenched in my fist. Mycroft spoke briskly beneath my urgent directives, already feeding our address to the agency representative he had been working with. I let him finish, then continued. “Shooter’s location due west of current position, the Continentale hotel in Florence, Italy. One operative, one civilian being targeted. Main building, third floor, west-facing window.”

“Is a medical team necessary?”

I instinctively turned over my right shoulder, where any other agents would have gathered had I been a team leader in the field. A brief flash of panic washed through me when John wasn’t there, but I quickly rationalised away from the worst-case scenario. He hadn’t been trained on agency protocol. Just because he wasn’t where I wanted him to be didn’t mean he was down, just elsewhere. I forced my breathing to slow and peeked out from behind the bed.

John had ducked behind the entertainment cabinet with the laptop, and he glanced over at me when I moved. I gestured him over to me. After a quick assessing glance at the broken window he darted across the open floor, leaning heavily against the bed once he settled next to me. “Mary. My name was on the computer. What the hell’s going on?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Why did she send you my name?”

“ _Are you hurt_?”

“No.”

I gave him a visual once-over anyway. My gaze caught on a rip in the shoulder of his t-shirt, the edges of which were staining with blood. Without saying anything, I reached forward and pulled the shirt over his head.

“Is now really the time?” he quipped with a strained grin.

I ignored him, reaching out to trace the bleeding injury on his shoulder before speaking into the mobile. “Confirmed, I will need a medical response team. Civilian has sustained a superficial bullet wound and is still bleeding.”

“Bullet wound?” He twisted his head, trying to see. “Can’t be. Probably just glass from the window.”

I balled up the t-shirt and pressed it forcefully against the wound, making him hiss in pain. “John, you’ve got a serious adrenaline response if you think this is only from a piece of glass.”

Myc’s voice came back at me through the speaker, professional and calm. “Is he conscious?”

“Conscious and aware.”

“Team is ten minutes and counting.”

I nodded, grateful that there was a team currently stationed in Florence, and pushed harder against the t-shirt. John frowned at me. “You’re sure it’s a bullet wound?”

“I was in Afghanistan with you, remember?” I brought his hand up to the wad of cotton. “It’s just a graze, but it’s deep and bleeding a little heavily for my taste. Keep pressure on that.”

We sat tensely for a moment in the silent aftermath, waiting for something else to happen. No more gunshots pierced the calm of the night, though in a way that only made me more nervous. Why just the one shot? Who was the target?

He reached a hand over to brush at my neck. “You’re bleeding.”

I smudged away the blood I could feel trickling from the cuts along the right side of my face and neck. “Just little nicks.”

“You should have them looked at anyway.”

“I will.”

“Five minutes,” Mycroft murmured.

“Any ideas on the shooter?”

“No,” he replied, the slightest amount of peevishness permeating his voice. “The team I had stationed to watch you cannot report anything.”

Ooooh. I knew that tone; someone was getting fired in the morning. I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “Let me know as soon as you learn anything.”

John skimmed his fingers against my arm to get my attention. “What’s going on?”

“Let me see the laptop.”

He handed it over with his free hand. “Why would she send you that?”

**[03:12] goldn.rose: 104 JOHN WATSON**

“Please try to use some common sense, John. Why do you think she would send that?”

“I’m the threatened civilian.”

“Well, a doctor named John Watson is the threatened civilian. I’m going to operate under the assumption it’s you, considering the sniper currently targeting us. The question now is why.” I folded my hands in front of my face, resting my elbows on bent knees. “Why you, and why now?”

“It’s entirely possible I’ve picked up enemies the last few years –”

“No, I know who is shooting at you, or at least who issued the order. But why now?”

“Any moment,” came from the phone.

“They’ll have to break the lock,” I muttered unhappily.

John chuckled. “You sound so miserable about that. We can just pay the hotel.”

I thumped my head back against the bed. “It’s the principle. I always hate bringing these teams in, they’re so predictably macho.”

Right on cue, the heavy stomp of armoured feet echoed down the hallway. I sighed and listened to them draw closer to our door. “There’ll be complaints.” John laughed, hissing as it jolted the graze. I winced in sympathy. “They should have painkillers.”

Someone pounded on the closed door. “Agent Marks, checking for occupants. Please reply if possible,” sounded through the wood.

“Two occupants, one injured,” I responded. “Door is locked, permission granted for entry.”

The door crunched inward under someone’s heavy boot. As soon as the first agent cleared the room, a second shot blasted through the window and buried itself in their armour. John and I threw ourselves to the ground, while a flurry of noise thundered in the hallway as the team regrouped. The loudest sounds came from Agent Marks as she shouted directions to her team. Mostly they seemed to gather outside of the bedroom, hesitant to enter and set off another shot but wanting to achieve the goals of their mission. A med team clustered around the agent who’d received the shot, ushering them to the back of the group to be looked over in relative safety.

“Any new injuries to report?” Marks called once the team settled.

“Negative, both parties safely behind cover,” I cried back. “Do not attempt entry at this time.”

“That is not your call to make,” she practically snarled. I rolled my eyes; clearly, she was new. Only a newly promoted team leader would be so defensive about calling the shots.

Normally I would let it slide, but this was a precarious situation and I was in control of more of the facts than she was. “As the superior operative, I will have to politely disagree with you. I repeat, do not attempt entry at this time.”

Hoping she would at least listen to my tone if not my words, I turned my attention away from the team loitering on the other side of the broken door frame. I needed to go over the facts. My biggest concern was getting medical attention to John, especially since it was hard for me to tell how much blood he’d lost. He was still bleeding, which definitely worried me, but I wasn’t willing to put the med team at risk –

“As team leader, I deny your request. Operatives are sufficiently protected to attempt entry and will be doing so shortly.”

I scowled, irritated that she wasn’t listening. Fine. If that’s what it had to take, I’d pull out the big guns. “Agent Marks, this is B-Agent Emerson, Codename Wildcat, of the ST Project. This shooting is in direct association with the ST Project and therefore falls under my jurisdiction. In addition, I am the one currently unarmoured and in the room being shot at and therefore in a much better position to be deciding whether or not we will risk further gunfire. Do not question my authority, just sit tight and let me do my job. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Now please get your team to shut up, because I’m trying to think and they’re making it difficult.”

The shuffling and murmurs from outside the door instantly ceased. John raised an impressed eyebrow. “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he muttered.

I tried to laugh, but was distracted by concern over the slurring that was beginning to show in his speech. “John, you’ve got to stay awake for me.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I reached across and took over pressing the saturated t-shirt to the wound. “John…”

“I need help,” he mumbled. “I’m getting loopy, and I definitely wouldn’t mind some painkillers.”

“I know,” I murmured softly. I reached across to press my fingers against the cool skin of his throat and could feel his pulse racing. “Tachycardia and a drop in body temperature. You’re going into shock.”

“Thank you for your diagnosis,” he slurred. “Appreciate it.”

“Glad to help,” I retorted. What we needed to do was neutralise the shooter. The problem was that we were in a highly populated area – we weren’t the only ones who liked it as a holiday location – and all I knew was the general direction the shots were coming from. I sucked a breath in through my teeth, debating with myself, and finally came to a decision. Myc’s team was under some restrictions in terms of what they could and could not do, particularly since we were out of the country that employed them. Marks’ team, on the other hand… “Agent Marks?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Send a squad to do a canvas on all buildings west of this location with a line of sight through this window. We need to get the shooter gone.”

Immediately she began issuing commands to her team. I relaxed a little, grateful that she was following orders now. Telling her to be quiet was one thing, giving her active commands was something else.

John seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he frowned curiously. “What exactly did you say to her?” he mumbled. “I feel like I missed something.”

“I pulled rank. She’s new – these retrieval team members are mostly fresh out of training – and she’s very new to her leadership position. Means they have some faith in me if they’re sending someone this inexperienced. She’s probably a D-Agent, where I’m a B-level. Levels of authority are a little fuzzy, but for the sake of ease I’m essentially the equivalent of an Army colonel. I’m also a Project member, which automatically means I out-rank her.”

“Agent Emerson, squad three is canvassing now.”

“Thank you, Agent Marks.”

John’s head slumped back against the mattress, his eyelids drooping. I poked his side. “C’mon, just a little longer.”

“Mmm,” he hummed. I wasn’t very reassured, and when I pressed two fingers to his throat his pulse was weaker than before. There wasn’t much I could do to treat him, since my resources were limited. Until we could get a medic into the room, I wasn’t able to… though really, I was qualified as a nurse. All I needed were the supplies, at least temporarily. It would help, at least. “Marks, I need to speak with a medic.”

A brief shuffle later and a young agent crouched down to my level in the doorway. “Agent Emerson? I’m Agent Garvey, I’m a medic.”

“Garvey, what treatment options do we have? I’m trained as a nurse, I can provide assistance to the patient, but I have no equipment with me. He’s losing blood quickly and I’m concerned with his pulse.”

“You’re applying pressure to the wound?”

“That would be why I’m pressing a t-shirt to his shoulder, yes.”

“Routine questions, ma’am, I apologise.”

“I’m worried,” I interrupted, “that it’s still bleeding freely, as the wound was sustained nearly twenty minutes ago. Do you have any haemostats?”

“Would Celox be sufficient?”

“That would be marvellous, thank you. If you could slide it to me?”

Memories of heat and sand swirled around me as I administered care to the wound in John’s shoulder. All of his weight sagged against the bed now, but he reached up to circle his fingers loosely around my wrist. “You alright?”

“Garvey, I need a bandage.”

“Mary.”

“Yes, John, I’m fine.”

A field bandage slid across the floor and bumped into my foot.  I reached down to grab it and began binding it to John’s shoulder.  

Marks’ head tilted and her eyes glazed over as she listened to something through her radio.  “Squad three found the sniper’s location, but the sniper is gone.”

“Must’ve bolted when you sent out the squad.”  I finished with the bandage and turned to face her.  “Have them keep canvassing just to be safe, but it should be clear to enter now.”

“Yes ma’am.”  Less than five minutes later, she nodded to her team.  “Clear.  Squad four, to the injured.  Everyone else, you know your jobs.”

A small group led by Garvey broke off from the main team and came our way, already prepping a portable stretcher.  John tried to protest as they loaded him on.  I squeezed his hand.  “Please, John.  They’ll take care of you, I promise.  I’ll come find you as soon as I can.  Alright?”

He scowled but stopped fighting the team.  “Be careful, Mary.”

“Yessir.”  I grinned at him, trying to stay visibly relaxed for his sake until he was out of the room.  

Once the stretcher cleared the doorway, Marks appeared at my side.  “The room is clean, ma’am.”

“I know that.”  I sighed and reached for the laptop, as well as the mobile - still connected with Mycroft - which lay forgotten beside it.  “Thank you.  I assume I’ll need to accompany you to the Rome office?”

“We need your account of the attack, ma’am.”

I nodded and snapped the computer shut.  “I trust your team will ensure all of our belongings are returned to London.”

“Yes ma’am.”  

I lifted the phone to my ear.  “Still there?”

To my surprise, I could hear traces of concern in Mycroft’s voice when he responded, “Of course.”

“I’m going to Rome.  John’s on his way to hospital, if you don’t mind keeping an eye on his progress?”

“I am tracking the vehicle as we speak.”

“Of course you are.”  Adrenaline made me chuckle weakly.  “I’ll phone you once I’m on my way back to London.”


End file.
